


Mesa Morada

by DJWillyShakes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Accidental SpideyPool, Alternate Universe-Country Club, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Angie Martinelli, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Broke Bucky, California, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone's Parents Are Alive, F/F, F/M, Gen, Joseph Rogers' A+ Parenting, M/M, Modern Era, Pothead Clint Barton, Trust Fund Baby Steve, Unapologetically Adorable Bartenders, Unapologetically Hot Lifeguards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJWillyShakes/pseuds/DJWillyShakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mesa Morada Golf and Country Club, a pristine, newly-renovated club for affluent members located just five miles north of picturesque Huntington Beach, California, is the summer haunt of choice for Joe Rogers, the real estate magnate, his beautiful, wine-loving wife, and his 22-year-old son Steve. A year shy of graduating UC-Berkeley, Steve is engaged to marry the daughter of international investment banker Harrison Carter, Ms Margaret "Peggy" Carter. They may not love each other, but the marriage would result in a pooled fortune of almost $4 billion--and the new, cuter staff at Mesa Morada may throw a wrench into the whole operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> So I did take a small hiatus from updating on this one, but I'm getting back on track; updates are coming. And while I am juggling this with three other fics, I do plan to finish this one--we're only just getting started.  
> Thanks for hanging in there, and I hope you've liked it so far!

            The collective worth of all the men teeing off at 11 am at the Mesa Morada Country Club in Huntington Beach, California was almost two billion dollars. Harrison Carter, the international investment banker, was the one worth slightly more, but Joe Rogers had the advantage of having brought his son, whose trust fund was more than the private endowment of a small New Hampshire university, and whose short-game was nearly as broad as his shoulders. So much so, in fact, that as he was making his seventh attempt at a hole in on the fifth, he chipped it directly over the hole in a beautiful arc, straight into the water hazard.

            “Take your time, Steven!” his father called, slicing the end off a fresh cigar and offering one to Carter. “He’s a little new to the game. We were gonna get out more during the spring, but he had that internship, you know, at Berkeley, and we couldn’t make the time,” Joe explained, watching carefully as Steve despaired of trying, covered his eyes, tried the putt one-handed, and made it in for a +5.

            “Oh, it’s all right.” Carter patted poor Steve on the shoulder while his caddy loaded up the cart. “Plenty of time to get caught up this summer. I’m quite looking forward to getting to know you, Steven. And so is Peggy,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.

            Wiping his face on a towel to conceal his blush, Steve bit his lip. “Thank you, Mr Carter. The feeling’s mutual.”

            “Please, call me Harry. This is good, Pete—“ Carter nudged his caddy to stop the cart. “We can walk from here. I like to come up on it, you know.”

            “You got it, Mr C.” The skinny brunette caddy swung out and toted all three sets of clubs up to the tee, his Coke-bottle gasses sliding low on his nose from the sweat.

            “How’s the real-estate business treating you, Rogers?” Carter asked, taking a swig from his water bottle. “I know the market’s been rough in the States, lately.”

            “Not on _this_ coast,” Joe scoffed, dropping a monogrammed ball on the tee and lining up his shot. “Everybody wants a Pacific beach house, Harry. I can barely keep up with the number of clients. I’ve had to hire three new girls in the last quarter just to keep ‘em all busy.” With a wry laugh, he swung.

            “Don’t I know the feeling—lovely shot, by the way—I was telling Howard Stark last night at the Rooftop, since I’ve moved offices overseas, we’ve seen nothing short of triples on all our returns…”

            Steve tuned them out, trying to focus on his shot. He’d forgotten to pack sunglasses when he flew down from San Francisco, and the southern California sunshine had been torturing him all week. On top of that, his father had insisted on loaning him one of the brand-new, extra-breathable golf shirts he’d bought, as though it would give him some kind of advantage. Joe Rogers was convinced he and his son were the same size, and while he wasn’t wrong strictly in terms of height, Steve had something like four inches more of shoulder and six less of beer gut, so the shirt was ill-fitting, denying it its extra-breathable purpose, trapping all the sweat in a gooshy layer above his skin while the sleeves bit rudely into his biceps. Steve wanted an iced tea, a cold shower, and, above all, for the stupid golf game to be over.

            The loud _zzzzZZZZZZ_ of a gold cart engine cut Joe off on one of his long, drawling rambles on the damage of property taxes. They all looked up to see one of the dark purple carts bouncing over the hills of the golf course, piloted by two staff members wearing different combinations of the equally-purple club uniform. The one driving had one hand on the wheel and one on the roof of the cart, thumping in time to the blasting music, and the one riding shotgun wore a club baseball cap backward on his shaved head. They were whooping and laughing as the cart buzzed up onto the fairway of the sixth hole and stopped, turning off the radio abruptly.

            The driver hopped out and grabbed a water bottle from a case in the back of the cart and handing it to the caddy. He was tall and long-legged, with a wisp of dark brown hair falling into his eyes. “Here ya go, Parker,” he told the caddy with a crooked grin and a nod at the golfers. “Stay cool, gentlemen.”

            “See ya later, Petey!” Shotgun sang, tossing his baseball cap at the caddy and slapping the radio back on. They drove off singing to Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” at the top of their lungs. Fumbling with the baseball cap, Pete the caddy stuffed it into his pocket and took a long drink from the water bottle.

            Joe wrinkled his nose. “Sorry about that, Carter. The club hired all new staff after New Year’s. A bunch of kids. Can’t say I don’t miss the old ones.”

            “Oh, that’s quite all right,” Carter assured him flippantly. “I’ve come to expect worse this side of the States. Overall, my experience at this club has been surprisingly pleasant.”

            Miffed, Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Carter cut him off.

            “You are staying for the summer opener tonight, aren’t you?’

            “Uh—yeah. Yeah, of course.” Joe glanced at his son with a measure of uncertainty that told Steve they’d had no previous intention of doing so. “Are you bringing Charlotte? Sarah’s dying to meet her.” That, too, was a lie. Steve knew that, if asked, his mom would be hard-pressed to remember that Harrison Carter even _had_ a wife.

            “Oh, yes. Absolutely. Char adores that kind of thing, you know.” Carter mopped the sweat off his face, adjusting his newsboy cap. “Black-tie, isn’t it?”

            “No, actually.” Joe grinned triumphantly. “The club never has black-tie events. Always semiformal. Semiformal and open bar—my two favourite kinds of party.”

            “Delightful. And you’ll be there, won’t you, Steven?” Carter asked, cocking an eyebrow.

            “Yes, sir.” Steve hoped he had something he’d forgotten that could get him out of it. He didn’t drink or dance, two things his parents both pushed him and loved to do themselves. In fact, there was nothing he could think of that he’d like to do less than go to any parties at the club, particularly with his parents.

           

            “Thank you so, _so_ much for coming,” Peggy whispered, leaning against the bar. “I couldn’t imagine being here alone.” Her dark reddish hair was pinned up in a messy twist, and her slit-skirt blue dress was a neat complement to her signature red lipstick. Steve wished he hadn’t accidentally matched her so closely, with a shirt nearly the same colour.

            “Well, I couldn’t leave my best dancing partner,” he retorted with a forced smile. “Someone else might snap you up.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Thanks very much for that, Steve, but our parents aren’t around.”

            He drooped. “I mean it…you’re the only girl I actually _like_ dancing with. And I’d feel bad leaving you alone to dance with any of these crusty old guys. Especially seeing how much Dad’s been drinking tonight.” Glancing across the bar to where the smiling blonde bartender was handing his father a fifth Scotch and soda, Steve grimaced. “Not that I don’t think you could handle it, but I’d feel bad setting you up to get groped like that.”

            “Yes, well.” Peggy sighed, following his gaze down the bar. The bartender had waved Joe Rogers away and was now borrowing a ponytail holder from the man in a tuxedo sitting further down the bar. “Now that I don’t think _you_ could handle it, but I’d feel just as poorly breaking your father’s jaw.”

            Steve laughed. “Honestly? I wouldn’t.”

            “Of course not.” The bartender was laughing, covering her mouth and swatting the tuxedoed man, whom Steve swore he’d seen around the club before, on the arm. He was tall, but he slouched, and his dark brown hair was tied back into a little fluff of a bun. Without looking away (Steve didn’t, either), Peggy smirked. “Seen any _boys_ you enjoy dancing with, lately?”

            “Uh…” Steve blushed, tearing his eyes away from the bartender’s friend and regluing them to the polished wood of the bar. Very few people aside from his college friends knew, but when they’d been engaged, he’d felt obligated to tell Peggy about his bi-ness, since she’d had the courage to ask for an open marriage right off the bat. She was very supportive.

            “No,” he admitted, playing with his hands. “I’ve been staying with my parents since I came down. I try not to look when they’re around. Just in case.”

            “Well, as perfectly dreadful as _that_ is—“ Peggy gave a huff and nodded to the end of the bar. “What about him?”

            “…him?” Steve looked back up at the bartender’s friend and blanched. “What, just because he’s close?”

            “No, you idiot. Because he’s been stealing glances at you since we’ve been sitting here, and I think he might like what he sees.” Sliding off the barstool, she nudged him over. “Go talk to him.”

            “Here? Peggy—“ Gripping the bar to fend off her increasingly aggressive nudging, Steve shook his head. “My parents are here. In the room, no less.”

            “Your mother has two bottles of wine in her, and your father is too busy shouting at the band to notice,” she pointed out.

            He squirmed. “But all their friends are here—“

            “Steve, you’re engaged to a woman.” Peggy crossed her arms. “You’ve done it. You’ve fooled them into thinking you are nothing but a meek, mild-mannered heterosexual. Now go talk to that roguishly handsome young man, or I swear I will make another date for you to play tennis with my father.”

            Frowning, Steve slunk off down the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peggy take up the barstool again and flag down the girl bartending, leaving him alone with the young man, who was indeed roguishly handsome. He managed to smile as he sat down, glancing over his shoulder a little furtively. “Hi.”

            The other man smiled back, as if at some secret joke, resting his elbows on the bar behind him. “Hey.”

            “Aren’t you, uh—a little overdressed?” Steve looked over the satin lapels, polished shoes, and tight black bowtie with some curiosity. “I mean, it looks good, don’t get me wrong, but—“

            Biting his bottom lip, the young man stifled a laugh…and pointed out the nametag pinned to his breast pocket, which read _James_ , stamped in black on the brass.

            Steve deflated considerably, cheeks hot. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized he _had_ seen the guy around the club before—driving golf carts, carrying towels, pacing the pool deck in the red LIFEGUARD polo. “Oh. Sorry—“

            “That’s okay.” Easing off the stool, James stood at attention and dropped his playful grin for a polite one. “Can I get you anything, Mr Rogers?”

            “Champagne,” Steve muttered, finally understanding why his oft-embarrassed father drank so much of the stuff. “And—uh—get one for yourself,” he added, trying to salvage some kind of flirty gesture.

            “Thank you, sir, but I’m really not supposed to drink on the job.” The server (and apparently caddy/lifeguard/stockboy) had a bit of a drawl, something further East, but not wholly unpleasant. He cocked an eyebrow. “Would you like a glass for your fiancée, as well?”

            A quick look over his shoulder told Steve Peggy was only distracting the bartender by chatting; she hadn’t ordered a drink. He nodded, fumbling a twenty out of his pocket and pressing it into James’ hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry, again.”

            “It’s really fine, Mr Rogers.” Folding the twenty into the inside pocket of his jacket, James laughed. “Honestly, I’m flattered you thought I was a club member. I must be doin’ something right.”

            “Must be, yeah,” Steve repeated, eyes more than a little hooked on the server’s lips.

            “I’ll have those drinks up for you right away.”

            He didn’t manage a “thank you” until James was already walking away. Sighing, he slunk back over to Peggy and dropped into a barstool.

            She glanced at him and waved the bartender away. “I’ll talk to you later, Angie—and what’s the matter with _you_?”

            “He’s really hot,” Steve mumbled, taking his glasses off and cleaning them miserably on his shirt.

            Peggy cocked an eyebrow. “So are you, sweetheart. And he seemed to like you very much.”

            “I fucked it up.”

            “Oh?” Flicking out her compact, she inspected her lipstick. “How did you manage that?”

            “I’m hopeless and awkward and I haven’t had a really good kiss since New Year’s,” he grumbled. “That probably played a factor.”

            “Well, there are lots of pretty boys around the pool this time of year,” she reassured him, squeezing his shoulder. “And the club’s just hired all new staff. You’ll find someone else. And you’ll probably never see him again.”


	2. II

            “Oh, Margaret, darling, you don’t _really_ like those ghastly old tablecloths, do you?” Charlotte Carter wrinkled her nose, holding the page of the catalogue away from herself as if it might bite her.

            Peggy’s jaw tightened, and she snatched the magazine away from her mother, passing it to Steve. “I happen to _like_ olive, Mother. And so does Steve.”

            Charlotte rolled her eyes theatrically. “It’s so _drab_ , dear. Steven, poppet, do you _honestly_ want these old rags?”

            “You know me, Mrs Carter…” Steve exchanged a tired glance with Peggy and nodded. “I’m happy when she’s happy. Olive is a neutral, anyway, and I like it for a fall wedding.”

            Joe barked a laugh, draining his third mimosa. “What is that daughter of yours _doing_ to him, Carter? My boy’s sounding sissier and sissier every day!”

            “Oh, it’s a fine thing for the boy to have an eye for colour,” Carter countered, reaching for another scone. “If he can plan a wedding, he can build a house. And I would never want my Peggy to marry a man with no taste.”

            “Steve has _wonderful_ taste,” Sarah gushed, fanning her rosy cheek with the hem of her cover-up. “He helped me pick out this bikini last month.”

            “And it’s a _lovely_ colour, darling,” Charlotte fawned. “Just gorgeous. I wish I had your figure.”

            “The woman drags him shopping every chance she gets,” Joe grumbled, nudging Carter in the ribs. “Ever since he was a teenager.”

            With a long sigh, Peggy dragged the catalogue back. “I think I’d rather have candles than twinkle lights. The LED kind, of course. Real candles are so much trouble—but they’ve more charming, and absolutely no one was listening to her,” she went on, shooting an exasperated look at Steve, “so she tore the rotten engagement ring from her finger and pushed her fiancé into the pool in a tremendous flourish.”

            Steve snorted. “I’m okay with that.”

            “What, dear?” Charlotte stopped trying to out-preen Steve’s mother and glanced at her daughter. “I don’t think using the pool in the wedding is a terribly good idea…” Peering over her shoulder at the huge, sparsely-occupied club pool, she frowned. “I don’t know that it’s quite large enough.”

            “What’re you doing, buying new bikinis at your age?” Joe teased, resting a hand on his wife’s knee. “Don’t I pay enough attention to you?”

            “Tankinis make me look old and fat,” Sarah complained. “And I think it looks good.” She pouted. “I’m fifty-one. I’m not dead.”

            “It _does_ look good, sweetheart,” Joe assured her, making a great show of looking her up and down. “Doesn’t she look good, Carter? I swear, the woman hasn’t aged a day since I met her.”

            “Joe—!” Brushing him away, she rolled her eyes. “Peggy, how did you get Steve not to flirt shamelessly in public?”

            “Oh, I promise you, Mrs Rogers,” Peggy replied dryly, casting a sharp glance at her fiancé. “He figured it out on his own.”

            Steve got the message. “Hey—honey—“ He stumbled over the word clumsily. “Are you feeling okay? Do you have a headache?”

            “Yes, actually.” Holding a hand to her temple, Peggy winced appropriately on cue. “I’m all right. This usually happens when I have wine in the morning.”

            Sarah looked into her wineglass pensively. “I’ve never had that problem.”

 

            “That’s _it_ ,” Peggy fumed the minute the door to their suite was shut. “I’m telling them everything. We’re calling off the wedding.”

            “You keep saying that.” Steve fell backward onto the bed, covering his face with his hands. “What about your greencard?”

            “I’ll do it the hard way. I don’t care.” Pacing, she started pulling off her jewelry and throwing it violently onto the bureau. “I refuse to go back to London with them. I don’t even want to spend the rest of the _summer_ with them.”

            “Your parents or mine?” Steve peeked out from behind his fingers.

            “Mine.” Throwing her earrings down with gusto, Peggy kicked the bureau. “Well, both, but mine are mortifying enough on their own.”

            He sat up on his elbows. “They’re not that bad.”

            “Until your father started doing it openly, my father was _groping_ Sarah under the table.” Flopping back onto the bed next to him, Peggy crossed her arms. “And Mum, with her _whining_ and giving him those _revolting_ coy looks—“

            “Calling off the wedding won’t make them any nicer,” Steve mumbled. “Us getting engaged is the only thing convincing my dad I’m not gay. If we break it off, they won’t just cut me off. Dad’ll out me in the most obnoxious way he can think of to every potential employer in the Western Hemisphere.”

            “Oh, for the love of God, Steve…” Peggy rolled her eyes. “You’re a soft-spoken, well-dressed graphic designer with the body of the porn star. Every employer you’ll ever _have_ will expect you to be at _least_ bisexual, which is actually more correct.”

            “When my dad looked over my shoulder at my Facebook and saw _one_ picture of me kissing my high school boyfriend, he spent the next four years screaming and swearing his head off any time he had to be in the same room as his ‘faggot son’.” Rolling off the bed, Steve paced to the closet and squirmed out of his overstarched brunch clothes. “He only stopped when I went along with them setting us up. The guy almost beat me to death when I was nine and he was dry. Now he’s a raging alcoholic.” Tugging on jeans and an old art camp t-shirt, he slammed the closet door. “I know he’s a pig, Peggy. I know your mom drives you crazy. But I’d rather get the wedding over with and get the hell away from all of them than light another rainbow fire under my dad’s ass.”

            “You’ll have to tell them sometime,” Peggy said softly.

            Gritting his teeth, Steve glared a hole into the carpet. “And I will. When _I_ want to. When _you_ have a greencard and we both have distance.”

            “I don’t want a greencard that badly,” she grumbled.

            “Well, _I_ don’t want to be outed because you can’t handle your own mom,” he snapped.

            Stung, she scowled. “Then what do we do?”

            He shook his head, throwing on his backpack. “I don’t know. I need to somewhere else. I’m sick of this damn club.”

            “Good idea.” Scrambling up from the bed, Peggy went to dig through the bureau for jeans. “We can take my car. I want an American cheeseburger that isn’t smothered in aioli.”

            “Hope you find one.” Steve grabbed his keys and leather jacket and left before she could protest.

            He slipped out a side door the parking lot, eternally grateful he’d ridden his bike down from Berkeley, rather than accepting plane fare from his parents. It was usually easy to find his Harley leaning between the army of too-shiny luxury cars populating the front lot, but at the time Steve was trying to escape, the flashing of the red-and-white ambulance lights made it harder to pick out his bike. He wasn’t overly shocked to see an ambulance in Mesa Morada’s driveway; the average age of its members was around 63, and the average structural integrity of its members’ hips was around 63%.

            There was staff clustered around the doors, a handful of purple polo shirts trying to stop a crowd from gathering where they could impede the EMTs’ efforts. Steve stayed behind the stone railing of the grand front steps, content to watch until the ambulance left and he could make a clean break. As he watched, two lifeguards, still dripping wet, held open the front doors. The paramedics came out, carrying a stretcher containing one very wet, very blonde, and very confused-looking woman. Her face was flushed, and her brand-new, navy-blue bikini was riding up in ways that were barely appropriate and certainly uncomfortable. She was apologizing hazily to the paramedics, one of whom had to keep reminding her to lie flat.

            Steve’s eyes widened, and he clambered over the stone railing to get a better look. “Mom?”

            Sarah sat up on the stretcher, beaming. “Hi, Steve! I love those jeans on you.”

            “Jesus—Are you okay?” He glanced at the exasperated EMTs. “Is she okay?”

            “She had a little bit of a fall, and she inhaled some water,” one of them explained as he helped Sarah lie back down. “She should be okay, but it’s better that she has a checkup.”

            “Okay…” Helplessly, Steve watched them load his mother into the ambulance.

            “Bye, honey!” Sarah waved cheerily before they slammed the doors.

            Deflated, he stood forlornly on the steps, watching the ambulance drive away. A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He looked up, and damned if it wasn’t James the cute waiter in swim trunks and a towel.

            “She’s gonna be okay.” Offering a sheepish grin, the lifeguard displayed his head-to-toe soakedness. “She slipped on the deck and fell into the deep end. I got her out as quick as I could. Didn’t even spill her drink,” he added knowingly.

            Steve sighed. “Thanks. I thought something like that might happen…she had a little to drink this morning.”

            “Yeah.” With a snort, James extracted a soggy tie from his hair and tousled it dry with the lavender towel. “She’s not the only member who has spills like that. And most of them aren’t as friendly and apologetic as your ma.”

            Steve laughed weakly. “She does that.”

            “Either way.” Combing his hair—it was longer than Steve expected, almost down to his shoulders—back into a ratty bun with his fingers, the lifeguard shrugged. “She’s gonna be fine, Mr Rogers.”

            “Call me Steve.” He winced. “Mr Rogers is my dad.”

            “No, your dad is ‘Big Joe’,” James corrected, grinning and throwing his towel over one shoulder. He was still very much drenched in pool water, and it was proving to be very distracting. “By his request.”

            Steve rolled his eyes. “Of course he is.” Doing his best not to sneak _terribly_ obvious looks at the lifeguard, he sighed. “Call me whatever you want. I don’t need any special treatment.”

            “You got it, Captain Handsome,” James teased with what might have been a wink. Steve must have blushed more visibly than he’d hoped, because the lifeguard stifled a laughed. “I’m kidding. Steve—“

            “Bucky!” The front doors cracked open, and the other lifeguard poked her head out. “You coming back?”

            “That’s me,” James explained to Steve’s confused expression. Flicking a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, he called back, “I’m comin’. Take primary and cover Matt ‘til I get there. It’ll just be a second.”

            She rolled her eyes and went back inside.

            “’Bucky’?” Steve asked, cocking an eyebrow what he hoped was teasingly.

            The lifeguard smirked. “You ain’t never had a dumb nickname?”

            “I—uh—“ Cheeks feeling hot, Steve shifted. “I mean, Steve is…a nickname…” He tried to find something to stare at that wasn’t the lifeguard’s chest or biceps or dimples. He failed. “Sorry. Uh—thank you—for helping my mom out.”

            “Just doing my job.”

            The front doors cracked open again, and the other lifeguard shouted, “ _Bucky!_ ”

            “I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” Rolling his eyes, the lifeguard started up the stairs. “Have a good night, Mr Ro—sorry.” Stopping himself, he glanced back and winked. “Stevie.”


	3. III

            “It _is_ funny,” Peggy insisted, biting back laughter as she emptied the aloe vera onto his chest. “Hold still.”

            “It’s cold.” Steve squirmed away from her hands, wincing as he twisted his sunburnt skin. “And it’s not funny. I’ve never burned this badly in my life.”

            “Well, it’s sweet, then.” She rolled her eyes, slathering Lidocaine aloe down his chest and arms, the skin of which was beet-red, taut, and hot to the touch. “You spend so much time by the pool goggling at Binky—“

            “Bucky.”

            “—that you end up burning yourself to a crisp.” Shaking her head, Peggy wiped her hands on Steve’s discarded beach towel. “And you still insist you don’t have a crush.”

            “It’s not a crush.” Sitting up gingerly, Steve dug a bottle of anti-inflammatories out of the nightstand. “I think he’s cute. That’s all.”

            “You burnt off half your skin because you were _lusting_ over a scruffy employee?” Peggy cocked an eyebrow. “He isn’t _that_ good-looking.”

            “I think he is,” Steve mumbled, easing to his feet and wandering into the closet. “And I’m not ‘lusting’.”

            “That’s precisely what you’re doing.”

            Extracting the softest tank top he could find, Steve began the process of tugging it on without touching it to his skin. “It sounds weird when you say it like that. Like I’m about to be exiled from the monastery for gross indecency.”

            “You very well may be.” Peggy slid off the bed, going to touch up her makeup in the mirror over the bureau. “If your parents catch on, that is. We haven’t exactly been glued to each other’s sides, as would your typical soon-to-bes.”

            He frowned. “You’re the one who disappears all day. You know where I am.”

            “Forgive me if I don’t like to spend my days exclusively on ogling cleft-chinned lifeguards,” she replied dryly, touching her lipstick gently to make sure it had set. “You should try shadowing me tomorrow—unless, of course, you’re chomping at the bit for another round of golf with my father.”

            Steve made a face. “I’ll certainly use the excuse—where are you going tonight?”

            “Tonight is _my_ obligatory interaction with the in-laws.” Riffling through her jewelry, Peggy sighed. “There’s an event in the ballroom for ladies only. A sort of wine-tasting-slash-silent-auction for yet another unspecified charity who probably won’t even get the money. Feel free to stare at the lifeguard as much as you like while I’m gone,” she added teasingly, clipping a gold bangle around her wrist.

            “Very funny.” Flopping back onto the bed, Steve winced and grumbled, “He’s off-duty, anyway.”

            “Poor thing.” Zipping up the back of her dress, Peggy stepped into her pumps and smoothed her skirt. “Do try and find something to do tonight—you’re pining again, you know.”

            “I know.” Steve covered his face with his hands. “I’ll go into town. Or something. Have fun.” Kissing his forehead—carefully, so as not to leave a lipstick mark—she left. Steve spent a few more minutes lying still in misery and mild pain. It wasn’t until he was two-thirds of the way to the parking lot that he realized he knew next to nothing about the area, and he wasn’t in the mood to go trawling for clubs that may not exist in a tourist city he had no idea how to get to. He wandered the back hallways the staff used aimlessly, until something made him stop.

            Just outside the door to the check-in desk, two staff members were talking. One voice, Steve recognized as that of the desk clerk, a scruffy young man in his late twenties with tremendously curly dark hair. The other was Bucky’s. He stopped and peeked around the corner, watching curiously.

            “I’m sorry about the long shifts, Buck,” the clerk was saying. “I hate to schedule you this much.”

            “It’s okay. I was looking for more hours, anyway.” The lifeguard shrugged.

            “Still, the late shifts every night—I wish I could go easier on you, but we’re gonna need all the help we can get, soon.” The clerk sighed. “The Starks are arriving tomorrow.”

            “The Starks?” Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “As in…both of them?”

            “Unfortunately.”

            “I didn’t know the Starks came here.” Incredulously, Bucky ran a hand through his hair, leaning back against the doorframe. “Is the cleaning crew ready for that?”

            Steve snorted, thinking, _Not possible_.

            “I’m hoping they don’t need to be,” the clerk muttered. “I don’t know if MM can handle an incident like the Chicago Waldorf.”

            Steve winced.

            “MM doesn’t _have_ any crystal butterflies to smash,” Bucky offered. “If that helps.”

            With a snort, the clerk turned to go back to his post. “You heading home?”

            “Just about. Gotta wash up and drop some stuff off with Ma first.” Bucky stifled a yawn. “How much longer are you on?”

            “Til two.” The clerk grimaced. “Then from nine tomorrow.”

            “Jesus.”

            “Yeah.” Straightening his tie, he nudged open the door to the lobby. “Take it easy, Barnes.”

            “You too, Bruce.” 

            The clerk went back behind the front desk, and Steve had little to no time to figure out how not to look like an eavesdropper before Bucky saw him leaning in the doorway.

            With the ever-present smirk Steve always managed to mirror in a less-crooked, more-dumb way, the lifeguard cocked an eyebrow. “You look lost.”

            Steve pushed off the door frame, standing straight and trying to figure out what to do with his hands, which distracted from the formation of a sufficiently witty response. “Uh.”

            “If I didn’t know better,” Bucky teased, looking him up and down, “I’d say someone was trying to sneak out.”

            Sheepishly, Steve nodded. “How’d you know?”

            He shrugged. “I think every club member uses the service hallways to make a quick getaway one time or another.”

            “Yeah.” Steve squirmed. “The hallways are full of benefit guests right now. I’m trying to avoid ten or eleven incarnations of the good-to-see-you talk.”

            “The good-to-see-you talk?” Motioning for Steve to follow, Bucky started down the corridor to the rows of lavender lockers lining the walls.

            “You know…’Steve, it’s been so long, how’s school, how’re your parents, how long are you staying, call me tomorrow, we’ll get lunch’.” He rolled his eyes. “Bonus points if you’ve never seen the person before in your life.”

            “I bet.” Spinning open the combination lock, Bucky pulled out a ratty black backpack with various messages scribbled on it in metallic Sharpie. “So where are you fleeing to tonight?”

            “I…I actually don’t know,” Steve admitted. “I’ve been living in San Francisco for the past three years, and the last time I was in Huntington Beach for more than a few days, I was kind of…eight. I don’t even really know what I want to do, much less where I’d go to do it.”

            “Well, we got bars.” Stripping off his nametag and walkie-talkie and setting them in the locker, Bucky emptied the pockets of his uniform slacks into his backpack. “Restaurants and tourist-trap-type gift shops, but those’ll all be closing by the time you get to town. You’ll wanna get a little closer to Long Beach before you’ll find any real clubs—so you’ve got bars, or I can try to find you a house party.” He held up his phone.

            Steve grimaced at the prospect of wandering around a loud, thumping beach-house party where he knew absolutely no one. “If you know any good bars, that’d be great.”

            “Actually, a couple friends of mine work at one downtown, a little away from the beach.” Shouldering his backpack, Bucky pushed the locker shut. “A little retro, organic-comfort-food kind of place.” He smirked. “Let me buy you a drink.”

            “Oh—“ Steve swallowed, feeling himself blush down to his toes. “You don’t have to do that.”

            “Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged. “You seem nice, and you know what they say about drinking alone.”

            “Are you sure?” Steve did his best not to seem too eager.

            “Sure.” Knocking on the door of the employee common room, Bucky shot him a grin. “Let me change quick, and we can go.”

           

            Bucky was giving him something of a guided tour of Huntington Beach as he maneuvered his puttery old Taurus through the streets, and Steve heard exactly none of it. The lifeguard had changed out of his MM polo and slacks into a black tank top and tight jeans, which proved to be nearly as distracting as his poolside uniform. He had also, before they left the parking lot, used three and a half baby wipes to clean what he explained was a mixture of liquid foundation and hairspray off his left upper arm, revealing an intricate half-sleeve tattoo like a complex metal prosthesis, complete with hyperrealistic scarring where the metallic panels met “real” skin, and a bloodred star “painted” on the shoulder. Between the body art and the bicep underneath it, Steve was hard-pressed to focus on anything else. And a little lightheaded.

            “Steve? Hello?”

            He jumped. The car had stopped at some point, and Bucky was staring at him with mild concern. “Sorry. What?”

            “I said, are you coming?”

            “Oh.” Scrambling out of the passenger seat—banging his head on the roof in the process—he shook himself back to reality. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little out of it.”

            “Long day?”

            Steve was about to agree when he remembered which one of them had just finished a twelve-hour shift catering to smug millionaires, and which had spent the whole day sketching by the pool. He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

            “Well, let’s hope alcohol makes you more talkative.” With a teasing grin, Bucky hopped up on the curb. “I like to think my life isn’t _so_ much of a disaster that I’m down to drinking in silence on a Thursday night.”

            Steve laughed, hoping his blush didn’t show under the streetlights. “I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to be a better conversation partner from here on out.”

            “You better.” Holding the door for him, Bucky nudged him into the dimly-lit bar. “This is my off time. I’m not getting paid to like you anymore, so you better make it count.”

            The bar was an eclectic mix of grungy brick and neon plastic, a nineties relic staffed by pierced and tattooed servers in plaid and asymmetrical haircuts. A huge blue-and-yellow neon sign on the back wall read _The Astro_ in psychedelic lettering, the letters blinking and dancing like a Vegas hotel billboard. The exposed-brick walls were cluttered with local spray-paint and found-object art, and the drinks on the salvaged-wood bar were all glowing in electric-blue glasses under the blacklights hidden in the ceiling. The neo-grunge playing on the overhead speakers wasn’t blaring, barely louder than the buzz of conversation from the purple vinyl booths lining the walls. Behind the counter, a man the size of a house with blonde hair pulled back in a high-and-tight bun was practicing counts of pinkish vodka. He brightened and waved when he spotted them, calling Bucky over in the deepest voice Steve had ever heard from a man under forty, and an accent he couldn’t quite place.

            “Barnes! Finally, you stop by.” He wore a dark blue-and-silver plaid flannel with the sleeves cut off, showing off matching bicep tattoos—two cuffs of interlocking black lightning bolts.

            “Hey, big guy.” Pulling up a stool for Steve, Bucky reached over the bar to grab a bottle and two of the bright blue glasses. “How’s business?”

            The bartender smacked his hands away. “Stop that. You’re going to get me fired.”

            Bucky groaned. “C’mon, man. Just one round? I’m showing off for a hot date.” He nodded at Steve, who smiled on cue, entirely too excited by the word “date”.

            “You want to make your own drinks? Quit that overpriced day-care center and get a job here. We don’t pay as well, but the customers are a thousand times nicer.” He finished shaking his practice drink and poured it into the glasses Bucky had tried to pinch. “And try these. Tell me if they’re any good. Manager wants me to add some house drinks to the menu.”

            “They free?” Bucky asked skeptically, passing one to Steve.

            “’Course.”

            “Dry,” he proclaimed it after a test sip. “Not enough bite. Try pineapple instead of lime juice. It’ll foam better.” Pushing the offending drink away, he added, “And easy on the club. Steve here is a member.”

            “Not by choice,” Steve muttered, playing with the rim of his glass. “I’m staying there on my dad’s membership.”

            “Joe Rogers,” Bucky explained, shooting a meaningful look across the bar.

            “As in Rogers Realty?” the bartender asked, wiping his hands on a dingy towel.

            Steve nodded. “Yeah. Those ads of the balding guy with the weird lip scar on all the bus benches? That’s my dad.”

            “No kidding.” The bartender chuckled. “The son of a multi-millionaire, and you’re out with _Barnes_ on Thirsty Thursday? At _this_ dump?”

            “Gotta let the rich kids out once in a while.” Bucky squeezed Steve’s shoulder, grinning. “They get cabin fever, too, just like the rest of us. Steve, this is Thor, by the way. Aspiring surfer and mediocre bartender. Also a filthy immigrant stealing American jobs.”

            “Family’s English, but we moved here from Melbourne,” Thor explained, holding out his hand to shake. His grip was illogically firm. “Pleasure.”

            “I was trying to place the accent,” Steve admitted with a sheepish grin.

            The bartender laughed. “Well, there you are. Now, can I get you two anything for real?”

            “You know what I like.” Bucky leaned back against the bar, texting someone one-handed.

            “I do.” Tucking the dishtowel into his pocket, Thor got out two clean glasses. “And for you?” He raised an eyebrow at Steve. “What does the real estate king of southern California drink?”

            “Bourbon. A lot of it.” Feeling for his own cell phone, Steve rolled his eyes. “But his son prefers piña coladas.”

            “Coming right up.”

            Steve checked his phone while the bartender shook drinks to the beat of some virtually-unknown Arctic Monkeys song. No one had tried to contact him, which was surprising. Usually, Peggy would be live-tweeting her misery and potentially even begging for an excuse to leave. Tonight, though, it seemed she’d found something to keep herself entertained.


	4. IV

            Peggy was having a _wonderful_ night. The silent auction was mostly local art, which meant most of the benefit guests were milling through the selection and chittering to each other about brushstrokes and artistic influences. Peggy hovered by the bar, smiling and accepting wedding congratulations when they came to her and keeping a careful eye on Sarah Rogers’ wineglass count. The congratulations were genuinely sweet, even though she barely recognized the women dealing them out. They all hugged her tightly, gushed about Steve’s biceps for a few minutes, and wished her well, and thankfully, not one of them noticed her staring helplessly at the bartender.

            She wore the standard white blouse and black shirt, with a shiny purple scarf and earrings to match, winking from under her fluffy blonde hair in the light from the chandeliers. Her nametag read “Angie”, and she had Peggy’s number from the very beginning. As it turned out, ordering twelve virgin daiquiris in four hours, two days in a row, wasn’t the _most_ subtle excuse to catch glimpses of one’s crush.

            “Let me guess,” she’d said when Peggy set up shop on a barstool. “Virgin daiquiri for the pool deck?”

            Peggy shook her head, looking away sheepishly. “Nothing for me, actually. I’m just looking to sit down until someone I know passes by.”

            “So you have someone to talk to?” the bartender chirped, resting her elbows on the bar.

            She made a face. “So I know when to hide.”

            “Yikes. Sure you don’t want a drink?” Backing off the bar, Angie took up a glass to clean with the rag tucked into her apron. “It might help loosen that chip on your shoulder.”

            Peggy winced. “I’m sorry. That was a little harsh, wasn’t it?”

            “Just a little.”

            Picking at the wood of the bar with one tomato-red fingernail, she sighed. “I’m just not very fond of these kinds of things. They make me uncomfortable.”

            “You’re not big on parties?” Wiping her hands on her apron, Angie cocked an eyebrow.

            “No, parties, I like. It’s _fundraisers_ I can’t stand. And benefits, and galas, and anything where people are all trussed-up and stiff and fake—“ Peggy rolled her eyes. “Putting on a show, hugging and smiling at people you barely know like you’ve been friends for years—I’m not very good at it.”

            “I know what you mean—hang on.” Angie darted down the bar to take an order from a gaggle of tiny birdlike women in enormous flowered hats. “I like getting dressed up, and all,” she went on when she returned, fixing up three glasses with garnishes for Cosmopolitans, “but I like to go out and _do_ things, you know? See a play, or go dancing, or something. If I’m gonna stay in with people, I’d rather it was with people I know really well. It’s so awkward just to float from conversation to conversation all night.”

            “You go dancing?” Curiously, Peggy found herself leaning closer across the bar, her back to the rest of the room. “I didn’t know there was anywhere to do so around here.”

            “Well—“ Angie turned away under the guise of getting more ice. She couldn’t be sure, but Peggy thought she might’ve been blushing. “I don’t really go that often,” she admitted when she resurfaced. “Just once or twice, with my roommate. They have these throwback nights at this bar in town—the Astro—and they’re really fun. I’d _like_ to go more,” she added as an afterthought, looking up at Peggy.

            Peggy swallowed hard, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot. “Your roommate?”

            “Yeah—he’s got a bunch of friends that work there. He goes all the time, to hang out with them, and to meet people.” Shrugging, Angie loaded the Cosmos onto a tray and passed it off to a server. “It’s not really my scene, though.”

            “Not looking to meet anyone?” Peggy asked, nibbling unconsciously at her lip and absolutely running her lipstick.

            “I didn’t say that,” the bartender replied softly, peeking up teasingly from cleaning her shaker.

            “Peggy! My darling, it’s been _so_ long!”

            She jumped about a mile, whipping around. To her surprise, the caramel-haired woman dragging her in for a hug was someone she actually knew quite well. “Mrs Olsson!” Hugging her old nanny tightly, Peggy smiled. “I didn’t even know you were coming.”

            “Oh, call me Frigga, dear. You’re much too old for that ‘Mrs’ nonsense.” Rolling her eyes, she smoothed her elegant champagne-coloured dress. “How _are_ you? When your mother pointed you out, I scarcely recognized you.”

            “I’m very well, thank you.” It was relieving to say so without lying through her teeth. Peggy was grateful that tonight, at least, she wouldn’t be chained to her phone all night in the hopes that Steve would provide her with pleasant, if remote conversation. More than that, though, she was dying to go back to talking to the other side of the bar.

 

            “I know exactly what you mean. I had a friend at Berkeley—“

            On cue, Thor snorted, and Bucky blew a loud raspberry into his drink, just as they’d been doing all night.

            Steve rolled his eyes. “There _that_ is. Anyway. The only reason he came to UC was to get away from the Midwest. He had no idea the _rest_ of the world doesn’t cover everything with the same three cheeses, and he _hated_ the school. So he ended up transferring to UChicago—“

            Resolutely, Bucky blew another raspberry.

            “What?” Draining his third piña colada, Steve laughed. “I didn’t say the B-word!”

            Thor barked a laugh. “For the first time tonight.”

            “Aw, UChi’s just as bad.” Bucky poked at the ice in his glass with a shooting-star toothpick. “They tried to recruit my little sister for dance, but she’s still thinking east coast.”

            “Janet?” Thor asked, taking his empty glass.

            “No, Natasha.”

            “Jesus.” Steve laughed, checking his phone offhand. “How many sisters do you _have_?”

            Bucky shrugged. “Seven.”

            “ _Seven_?” His jaw dropped. “What are you, bunnies?”

            “Worse.” The lifeguard laughed. “Catholic. I’m the oldest.”

            “Think I’ve only met three,” Thor mused, frowning to himself.

            “Seven sisters—“ Steve shook his head. “How do you even remember their names?”

            “Easy.” Bucky counted them off on his fingers. “Top to bottom? There’s me, Carol, Natasha, and Janet; then Jessica, Jennifer, Becky, and Kate.”

            “Do that again,” Steve pressed, still in disbelief.

            “Carol, Natasha, Janet; Jessica, Jennifer, Becky, and Kate.” He rattled them off nonchalantly, checking his phone. “Used to get really confusing, because Ma still calls me James, and she’s got this real thick Brooklyn accent, so it’s hard to tell the difference from across the house between James, Jess, Jan, and Jen.” Bucky laughed, taking a surreptitious photo of Thor for Snapchat’s benefit. “Still is, every time I go home.”

            “Brooklyn, New York?” Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Is that where you’re from?” Bucky nodded, and he grinned. “That explains the accent.”

            “Accent?” The lifeguard scowled. “I don’t got an accent.”

            “’Don’t got’,” Thor muttered, snickering.

            “Shut up.”

            “Yeah? Here.” Grabbing the pen from his apron, Thor scribbled something down on a napkin. “Say that.”

            Bucky squinted at it. “’My handwriting suck. Thor Olsson’. What about it?”

            Rolling his eyes, Thor snatched the napkin back, flipped it over, and wrote more deliberately on the other side. “Bastard.” He slid it back across the bar. “Better?”

            This time, Bucky frowned and crumpled the napkin. “I know what you’re trying to do. But I don’t say it like that. I haven’t lived in New York since high school, and nobody _actually_ says it like that, anyway.”

            “Says what?” Steve reached for the napkin and was promptly swatted away.

            “Then say it,” Thor goaded, grinning.

            “I’m not gonna say it!”

            “Why not?”

            “You’re gonna make fun of me!” Bucky protested.

            “If you don’t say it any special way, we should have no reason to,” the bartender pointed out.

            Unwavering, Bucky crossed his arms. “I’m not doin’ it.”

            “I think you should say it,” Steve piped up oh-so-helpfully.

            Bucky glowered at him.

            “Come on.” Thor nudged him, cajoling him. “We won’t let it go until you do.”

            Defeated, the lifeguard sighed, and mumbled, “Fuggetaboutit.” To the uproar of laughter, he replied, “You guys are dicks.”

            “Aw, come on.” Steve wiped his eyes, catching his breath. “It’s cute.”

            Immediately, Bucky brightened, lips twitching up into that familiar smirk. Conspicuously, he looked Steve up and down. “Really?”

            Biting his lip, Steve prayed he wasn’t blushing and nodded. “Actually…” Doing his best to steady his breathing, he leaned casually on the bar. “I think it’s kinda hot.”

            Somewhere between that moment and the one before, Thor had made himself very scarce. He’d already announced last call almost an hour prior, and his disappearance made Bucky and Steve the only two occupants of the bar. Feeling truly relaxed for the first time since his engagement, Steve was drunk on freedom and more than a little bit of Malibu. And that was why, when he caught Bucky staring at his lips, in far too soulful a way to be legal, he didn’t hesitate. Grabbing the back of the lifeguard’s neck, Steve pulled him into a kiss longer than his six-month dry spell. Bucky let out an involuntary moan, his hand finding its way to Steve’s back and pulling him in closer. Just as Steve was about to double-dip, though, he broke away. “I should take you home.”

            “Good idea,” Steve panted, running a hand up his arm. “I was thinking the back of your car, but I can wait a little.”

            “No, I mean—“ Bucky shivered a little, but lifted the hand off his bicep and set it back in Steve’s lap. “I should take you back to the club.”

            “Oh.” Drooping, Steve smiled anyway. “Okay. Sorry about that.”

            “Don’t be. Really.” Bucky’s hand was still on his back, rubbing gently. He grinned sheepishly. “Don’t get me wrong—that was good. I’m just…I’m more of a third-date kinda guy.” Wincing, he got up and stretched. “Sorry.”

            “No, that’s okay.” Steve hadn’t realized exactly how long it had been since New Year’s until he tried to stand up. Carefully, he slid off the barstool. “Does that mean this was a first date?”

            Bucky grinned, crumpling up their discarded napkins and tossing them over his shoulder into the garbage can. “If you want it to be.”

            “And…” Hopefully, Steve inched a little closer, taking his hand. “Does that mean there’ll be a _second_ date?”

            “Of course.” Working last year’s siPhone out of his pocket, Bucky unlocked it and offered it up. “I’ll text you.”

            Following him to the car, Steve eagerly typed in his number. He considered saving his name with a heart emoji or two, as a joke, but decided against it.

            “Sorry to make you wait,” Bucky said as soon as he put the phone back in the center console.

            “It’s okay.”  
            “It’s not that I don’t… _want_ to, y’know, but…” The lifeguard shrugged, pulling into the now-quiet highway. “I like you. I don’t wanna give you the wrong idea.”

            Steve nodded. “I figured. I like you, too.”

            That made him smile, though he didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t have taken you home tonight either way.” Bucky nodded at his phone, smirking. “My roommate texted about an hour ago. She brought a girl home. Beat me to the punch.”


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I know it's been a long time since I updated anything, and I apologize. I have a couple new fics in the works right now, and I've been spending a lot of time getting them off the ground. My living situation the past couple months has also been really strange, but I move back to school in a couple days, so my writing should be more consistent. Check my page for new fics dropping soon!

            When they arrived at the Astro, Peggy and her date, who Steve recognized as the chipper blonde bartender from the MM main ballroom, had already secured a table near the stage. Bucky went off the get drinks, though he hadn’t asked for orders. The poet onstage, a college-age black woman with a pastel-purple Afro, finished her last syllable and left the stage to a chorus of snaps. Steve sat down and grinned. “Is she the last one?”

            “Yes.” Peggy rolled her eyes. “You would’ve liked her set, though. It was a lovely sort of response-to-biphobia thing—something you can relate to.”

            “I’ll look her up on YouTube,” he promised, slipping off his sweatshirt and smiling at the bartender. “You must be the Angie I’ve heard so much about.”

            “’So much’?” the girl teased, jostling Peggy playfully. “So you really _don’t_ shut up about me, do you, English?”

            “’English’?” Steve inquired, glancing slyly at Peggy.

            “Let it go, ‘Stevie’,” she responded through a forced smile.

            Laughing, her date held out a hand to shake. “Angie Martinelli. It’s nice to finally meet you, Steve.” When he looked puzzled, she added, “I’ve seen you around the club. And Bucky talks about you—when he can shout over me going on about your gorgeous friend here.” She winked at Peggy, taking her drink from a returning Bucky. “Right, Buck?”

            “It’s fifty-fifty.” He turned the tray Thor probably didn’t know he’d borrowed and held up one of the remaining three glasses. “Miss Carter? Scotch and soda?”

            “Thank you.” She took it, blinking in surprise. “How long have you two been conspiring about this date, exactly?”

            “Since Angie brought you home and Steve tried to jump me in the back of my car,” Bucky responded promptly. “Long enough we both got a little surprise for you,” he added with a grin.

            Angie passed Steve his piña colada and stage-whispered, “From the look on your face, I’m guessing he didn’t tell you we’re roommates.”

            Steve shook his head, frowning. “He didn’t.”

            “Yeah, well.” She rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair and nudging Bucky under the table. “You were bound to find out sooner or later. He’s lucky he’s pretty.”

            Grinning, Steve gave Bucky a sidelong glance. “That, I already knew.”

            Scowling into his drink, Bucky nudged her back. “Hey, the first act’s goin’ up. I think you’re s’posed to be quiet. And go fuck yourselves.”

            Sure enough, a skinny, chicken-necked college boy was stepping up to the microphone and straightening his Iron Maiden t-shirt in preparation for his set. Steve silently predicted at least three “friendzone” jokes and a full bit about a video game half the audience had never played. As a voice over the PA—Bucky’s oldest younger sister, Carol—made the first comic’s introduction, Thor wove his way through the tables with surprising stealth for being the size of a small pickup truck. He leaned down, snatched back the drink tray, and grumbled, “Stop sneaking behind my bar,” in Bucky’s ear before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

            The first comic was, in actuality, very good, with only one joke that made Angie roll her eyes and Peggy rip her napkin in half. In fact, the following three aspiring comics were also very good, and seemed more than marginally experienced, with one, a small Hispanic woman, demonstrating masterful impressions before plugging her own show in a club in Long Beach. During the comedy hour, Angie got up and returned with one of the laminated yellow cards that guaranteed her a spot in the next round of open-mic-ing. Curiously, Steve watched his own date, thinking he might have guessed the “surprise”, but Bucky never went to sign up, only checked his phone now and then, seemingly agitated by the time. When the last comic stepped down, Steve finished his drink and leaned over to Bucky worriedly. “Something wrong?”

“Nah—it’s just I gotta cut out early.” Bucky winced. “Around nine-thirty. Gotta run home for a sister-related errand.”

“Oh.” Steve tried not to let his face fall too far. “Are you coming back?”

            Grinning, Bucky leaned back, crossing his legs so his knee brushed Steve’s. “Sure. Someone’s gotta drive you home.” He nodded at the girls. “God knows Carter ain’t in any shape to do it.”

            “Get fucked, Barnes.”

            He gave her a wink and leaned back in his chair. “I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

            Peggy only snorted at him and drained her second Scotch-and-soda out of pure spite. She tried her best to hide it, but as the musical acts came and went, counting up to the holographic blue 11 stamped on Angie’s card, they all caught her stealing glances at the bartender, who kept her eyes trained innocently on the stage. Steve had to admit, he was a little eager to hear Angie perform himself. He didn’t know much about her, except that she was a members’ favourite at Mesa Morada, and her picture frequently graced the employee-of-the-month frame over the bar. Peggy always talked about her with a sort of unabashed admiration, and she was a hard one to impress.

            Number ten, a brother-sister act with iffy harmonies but dynamite piano skills, stepped off the stage, and Angie slid out of her seat, clutching her performer’s pass. She shot Peggy a mischievous smile, fluffed her hair, and chirped, “See you all in a bit!” before making her way to the DJ booth.

            Bucky always beamed when his sister picked up the mic, and he did it again as she shoved her tawny blonde Mohawk out of her eyes and announced, “She’s an Astro regular and _practically_ YouTube-famous; here with a little something retro, even for us, please welcome Angela Martinelli!”

            To scattered applause, most of which was Peggy’s, Angie stepped onstage, trumpets tooting her intro from a dated-sounding backing track. She’d slipped off her jacket, and the stage lights made her hair glow like gold. Her high-low top sparkled like an old-timey lounge-singer’s dress, and she gave the microphone a coquettish smile as she swayed a little to her intro. Peggy was utterly transfixed, drink forgotten in her hand, eyes locked on her date. Just as Angie took a breath to start, Bucky snorted, nudged Peggy under the table, and whispered, “You’re so not ready.”

            _”The minute you walked in the joint_

_I could see you were a gal of distinction_

_A real big spender;_

_Good-looking, so refined”_

            He wasn’t wrong. Her voice was smooth and almost husky, filling the room in a soft purple fog and spilling over the riffs like honey. Peggy at some point had developed one of those rapt, unconsciously wistful smiles just from listening, and she wasn’t the only in the audience. Steve was entirely blown away, and wished he’d had the courage—like a few other couples did—to get up and dance. He even caught Bucky’s eye once or twice as Angie brought the old jazz standard back to life, and thought he might ask, but before he could work past the nervous churning of his stomach, the song was over.

            Angie dismounted the stage under cover of the enthusiastic applause she’d more than earned, slipping back into her seat shyly. She was red to the tips of her ears, but she couldn’t conceal the smile on her face. “Been a while since I did that,” she admitted, scooting closer to Peggy and stealing a sip of her drink. “Was I any good?”

            Peggy and Steve were about to tout her praises when Bucky snorted. “I’ve seen better. F’you ask me, you’re losing your touch.”

            “You’re a fucking asshole,” Angie informed him, kicking him repeatedly under the table.

            “Ow! Jesus!” Rolling out of his seat to dodge her assault, Bucky grinned. “You two tell her how incredible she is. I gotta go.”

            “Already?” Steve frowned. “Sure you can’t get out of it?”

            “You’re sweet.” Tugging on his letterman jacket, Bucky leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I promise it won’t take long.” He gathered up the empty glasses from their table, set them on a table Thor was already in the process of bussing, and cut behind the DJ booth to embarrass his sister on the way out.

            “Gosh, someone’s in deep,” Angie snickered. Steve jumped, having fallen into a small reverie watching his date leave.

            “He’s a full-body blusher,” Peggy told her, glancing pointedly at the open neck of Steve’s shirt. “Isn’t it cute?”

            Angie nodded, and he scowled, holding his shirt closed and feeling his cheeks get even hotter. “Like I’m the only one.” He rolled his eyes, then mimicked Peggy’s open-mouthed Angie-watching expression, adding about forty percent more drool for dramatic effect.

            Angie tried to stifle her laughter, muffling herself poorly with a bar napkin. “Oh, English…”

            Peggy bristled, lunging across the table to smack him on the arm. “Steven Grant Rogers—“

            “I think it’s cute,” Angie cut in before anyone could get seriously hurt. “Both of you.” Flagging down a server for a refill, she added, “And Bucky’s crushin’ on you pretty hard, too, Steve. Trust me.”

            “Well, _that’s_ a relief.” Peggy rolled her eyes, nudging him fondly. “Because Steve’s half dead of thirst, at the moment.”

            Angie giggled and gave a mock-swoon. “Aren’t we all.”

            “Thanks, guys,” Steve mumbled. “You have an amazing voice, Angie.”

            “Oh—thank you.” She retreated into her seat bashfully.

            “You do,” Peggy agreed. “And the stage loves you.”

            “You guys—!” Rolling her eyes, Angie hid her face in her sleeve. “Thank you…I’m glad you liked it.”

            “Did you go to school for singing?” Peggy asked, toying with her date’s fingers.

            She shook her head. “Musical Theatre, actually. I’ve been singing my whole life, but I really want to act. Broadway was the goal, but y’know.” She shrugged. “It’s a tough business.”

            “’Was’?” Peggy cocked an eyebrow. “What happened?”

            “Well, I started out in New York. That’s where I went to college.” Stirring her drink absently, Angie shrugged. “And where I met Bucky. He’s actually a native New Yorker,” she added, nodding at Steve. “In case you were wondering why he talks like that.”

            Steve nodded. “Thor already outed him.”

            Angie smiled, shaking her head. “He dropped out around the same time I did, so we decided to come out here together to work up resumes. He found the apartment, I got us the jobs at the club; he drives me to auditions, I make sure he doesn’t have to live on Ramen and cold Spaghettios.” She shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. “It works out.”

            “Work up resumes?” Steve leaned back in his seat, bouncing his knee. “Bucky’s an actor, too?”

            She laughed. “No way. He doesn’t have the patience for theatre.”

            “Then what—“ Steve started to ask, but the DJ booth interrupted him.

            “All right, Astro, now that all the acts you really wanted to see are done, you can go ahead and clear out, because that band that keeps begging us for gigs is about to go on,” Carol drawled, spinning her swivel stool in a lazy circle. “Because the lead singer is sleeping with the owner, and because they’re just unknown enough for us to keep up the whole hipster image, give it up for Hot Ice!”

            The stage lights clicked to a purple tinge, and Steve turned in his seat to watch, not expecting much. They were a four-piece, with no discernable “style”. The guitarist wore a ratty tank top and had a beat-up-looking, gunmetal-grey, Target-brand electric. He looked to be a few years older than the other three pieces, with short-cropped hair and an unlit cigarette tucked behind one ear. The girl tuning her five-string bass had long reddish-brown hair dipped slime green, a cutoff denim vest, and a purple nose stud that matched the finish of her instrument. “No Boys Allowed” was tattooed in a bold serif font across her collarbones, with green nautical stars on either end of the text. The drummer wore red Ray Bans, a #BlackLivesMatter t-shirt, and a goofy grin. And the lead singer had unruly brown hair tied back in a bun, a red-and-grey letterman jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a permanent crooked smile.

            Angie leaned over the table, smirking at Steve’s expression. “You were asking?”

            Steve didn’t respond. Bucky barely looked at the microphone, taking a drink from his water bottle while the rest of the band counted off and struck a few opening chords. When he did take the mic, the sound he made into it almost made Steve faint.

            _“I’m hurtin’, baby_

_I’m broken down_

_I need your lovin’, lovin’, I need it now_

_When I’m without you_

_I’m somethin’ weak_

_You got me beggin’, beggin’, I’m on my knees”_

            If Angie had been courting the crowd, Bucky took them back to his place. Smoky and rich, his voice had something rough in it, like panting and bare skin on carpet, and when he wasn’t singing, the way he bit his bottom lip was downright obscene. At some point, Steve must have muttered something like “That’s not even _fair_ ,” because Angie giggled at him and pointed to the back of the house, which had filled in with lightning speed. By the time the band finished their opener, the Astro was standing-room only, all the way back to the bar.

            “Are they fairly well-known?” Peggy asked, giggling at the turnout. “At least in the area?”

            “Oh, for sure.” Angie nodded, applauding enthusiastically along with the crowd. “They’ve got stuff on iTunes and everything. Just the one album, so far, but they get gigs pretty regularly.”

            “All right, well, if you guys liked that, Maroon 5 is playing down in Anaheim at the end of the month.” Bucky exchanged a look with the guitarist and faked a goodbye-wave to the crowd. “That’s our set for tonight, though, so thanks for comin’ out—“ He laughed at the combination of laughs and groans he received, running a hand through the hair that had already snuck loose from his messy bun. “Sorry. I know Comedy Hour ended a while ago. I promise I’ll stop.”

            “He’s lying,” the guitarist cut in sardonically, snorting into his own mic.

            Bucky rolled his eyes. “Anyway, if you can’t read the posters Thor threw together in MS Paint, we’re Hot Ice, and now, we’d like to play you a song we _didn’t_ steal.” Clearing his throat, he glanced at the bassist for confirmation and smirked. “Miss Walters?”

            “With pleasure.” Toying with a string, she cocked an eyebrow wryly. “This one goes out to a boy who gave me the worst nickname I’ve ever had and couldn’t even make me O.”

            Bucky reached into his jacket and pulled out a brass harmonica that looked to have been flattened by a pickup truck. “We call it ‘Jenny Sue’.”

            “Well, I was going to ask if singing was all he did,” Peggy remarked dryly, under the music, “but clearly, he’s more multitalented than I gave him credit for.”

            Steve finally tore his eyes away from the stage and frowned. “Be nice. I think he’s good.”

            “He used to study Voice,” Angie explained. “We found the band a couple weeks after we moved here.” She pointed her drink at the lead guitarist in his cutoff “Eat More Possum” t-shirt. “Clint used to be their lead singer. Buck was ready to beg just to sing backup, but they loved his demo stuff, so…” She shrugged.

            “I can see why.” Something—presumably _not_ Bucky—onstage had caught Peggy’s eye. “They’re all right.”

            “Isn’t the bassist _hot_ , though?” Angie half-whispered to her with a grin.

            “She’s gorgeous.” Peggy shook her head. “It’s upsetting.”

            “I think she works as a personal trainer on the side. It’s ridiculous—“

            Steve let them gush over the bassist, newly-distracted by Bucky’s habit of playing with his lip between harmonica riffs. He stayed distracted by that and various other parts of his date’s anatomy until their closer, a cover of Neon Trees’ “Animals” accompanied by a rainbow light show. When Bucky hopped off the stage to Angie’s overly-enthusiastic cheering, Steve was still applauding, and didn’t catch himself until Carol came back over the PA.

            “My loser brother and his dumb garage band, ladies and gentlemen! Buy their stuff on your way out, and don’t get pulled over tonight.”

            “That’s my baby sister.” Intercepting Carol as she dismounted the DJ booth, Bucky pulled her into a sweaty hug by the table. “Look at you scratchin’ those discs. I’m so proud of you—“

            “Ugh!” Squirming, Carol tried to wriggle out of his grasp, eyes bugging. “Get _off_ me! Rub all your stage-stink onto your boyfriend.”

            Steve laughed, getting up and throwing his sweatshirt over one arm. “Hard pass. Thanks, though.” When Carol finally freed herself from her brother’s choke hold, he noticed a patch on her ratty denim backpack. “US Air Force? Are you a recruit?”

            She nodded, fixing the straps and punching her brother on the arm. “As soon as I graduate, I’m shipping out to San Antonio.”

            “She’s gonna be a pilot,” Bucky informed him, beaming. Stripping off his letterman jacket, he mopped his face with it and stretched, the stage lights turning his tattoo bluish. “And whip all those Air Force boys into shape free of charge.”

            “I wanna fly for NASA,” Carol added, brushing herself off. “There’s a projected expedition to Mars in ten years, and I’m gonna be on it.”

            “Wow.” Steve blinked. “Well…good luck.”

            “Speaking of projected expeditions,” Bucky cut in, nudging Angie out of an involved conversation with Peggy. “Where are you and Carter projected to go tonight?”

            Exchanging a look with her date, Angie shrugged. “We haven’t decided yet.” She smirked. “Is this you asking for the apartment to yourself?”

            “Just wondering,” he replied innocently, glancing at Steve and slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “I gotta take my little sister home before we go anywhere, but—“

            “No, you don’t.” Rolling her eyes, Carol nodded toward the bar. “Thor’s dropping me off. He has to pick Loren up from the library, and it’s on the way.” Brushing past him and checking her phone, she added, “You are gonna wanna shower before you _do_ anything, though.”

             “Hey—“ Shoving her toward the bar, Bucky scowled teasingly. “Ain’t nobody said anything about _doing_ stuff. Mind your own.”

            “Whatever.”

            As she disappeared into the kitchen, Bucky tried to backpedal, nudging Steve’s shoulder meekly. “I dunno if you just wanna go back to the club, or if you wanna stay out and party, but—“

            “I don’t really feel like staying out,” Steve admitted, stifling a yawn. “But if you wanted to go back to your place…as long as it’s okay with your roommate,” he added hastily, glancing at Angie.

            She exchanged another glance with Peggy and snorted. “Have your fun, boys. I want to take Peggy to the beach, anyway.”

            Bucky brightened. “You mean that little cove?” When she nodded, he sighed. “Man, Ange, if you keep stealin’ all my moves—“

            “Relax, Barnes,” his roommate teased, lacing her fingers into Peggy’s. “I’ll swear her to secrecy so she doesn’t give them away.” Bucky mumbled something reluctant, and she rolled her eyes, dragging Peggy toward the door. “I’ll be quiet when I come in. Don’t worry. And _don’t_ lose my place in SVU,” she warned, giving him a squinty warning look. “I’ll kill you, James. I mean that.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” He mock-saluted as they left, laughing. Steve waited patiently while he bussed their table, left a teasing love note for Thor, and worked his keys out of where they’d fallen into the lining of his jacket. “So,” Bucky said, leading him out to the car. “Wanna watch any episode of _Law & Order: SVU_ except season eleven, episode eight?” Before Steve could answer, he added, “Or did you have something else in mind?”, nibbling at his thumbnail in a terribly distracting manner.

            “I did, but—I’m surprised,” Steve teased, leaning on the Taurus’ scuffed roof. “I mean, not that I’m not interested, but I thought you had a rule.”

            “I do. And I’m stickin’ to it.” Tossing his jacket in the backseat, Bucky shot him a grin. “One single date, one double date—that makes three. If you want it to.”

            Slipping into the passenger seat, Steve leaned over for an admittedly sweaty kiss, smiling into it. “Trust me. I do.”


	6. VI

            The back of Bucky’s Taurus wasn’t the ideal place for two men, both around six foot, to furiously make out, but Peggy’s knocking made it downright impossible. Yanking open the door, she crossed her arms and waited while Bucky straightened the shirt that had been pushed up to his armpits, and Steve hunted for his on the floor. “Mr Barnes?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you work today?”

            “My shift’s not for twenty minutes,” Bucky mumbled, reaching meekly for the cover-up in the center console.

            “Very well. Steve—“

            “I didn’t forget!” he insisted, before she could start scolding. “My reminder just went off on my phone—“ He held it up as proof. “Buck was gonna let me use the staff hallways so I’d be able to change before we met with Coral.”

            “Smelling like cigarettes and sex hair?” She was not impressed.

            Bucky grinned. “Yeah, can’t do much about that.”

            Peggy rolled her eyes. “Sweet of him to offer, but you’re not meeting with the wedding planner today.”

            Steve paused, shirt half-buttoned, and frowned. “We’re not?’

            “ _I_ am. _You_ have another engagement.” Bucky had climbed out of the car to cover his tattoo, and she shielded her eyes from the hairspray fallout. “Conference Room A, with Olsson Financial.”

            Sliding out of the car, Steve made a face. “Since when?”

            Grimly, Peggy held up her phone to display a series of texts. “Since Tony Stark asked for you.”

 

            Howard and Anthony Stark, the weapons mogul and his tech-genius son, had made their entrance a week prior in the usual fashion.

            _Crash._

            “Swim for it, you old jackass!”

            The Starks had been at Mesa Morada for all of twenty minutes, and Howard’s suitcase had already taken a dip in the lap pool, the pool deck littered with bits of sliding door. Bruce, the desk clerk now cowering behind the front desk, had taken special care to separate their check-in times by a full hour to avoid exactly this kind of altercation, and had even given the younger magnate the later slot, knowing Tony’s fondness for arriving fashionably late. Unfortunately for Bruce and everyone in his lobby, Tony’s travel coordinator had failed to account for the time difference in Manhattan, and “fashionably late” turned into “precisely two minutes after his father”.

            It did _not_ help that half the news outlets in southern California had sent reps pouring into the lobby of the club, ready to chronicle the inevitable clash of the technological titans. Howard notoriously detested being embarrassed before the media, and Tony, equally notoriously, loved an audience of any kind.

            Most of the lobby staff were hiding in the back hallway, watching and trying to get clear videos for their Snapchat stories. Angie and Bucky arrived just as the second shouting match started, after Howard made a lunge for his son’s luggage and was shoved away by bodyguards Tony seemed to have hired solely because they were bigger than his father’s. Red-faced, moustache in disarray, the elder Stark straightened his jacket and demanded, “You couldn’t find another hotel, Tony? I’m sure there’s a villa in Huntington big enough for all your whores.”

            “Hey, don’t call your secretary a whore,” his son snapped back. “Ever heard of Title IX?” After a chuckle at his own joke, Tony turned his back on his father in the most dismissive way possible. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

            “ _Your_ stuff?!” Howard barked a laugh and blocked Tony’s path while his escort fished his luggage from the pool. “You wouldn’t have a scrap to your name if it weren’t for me!”

            “Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were every single one of my third-party backers,” his son spat back.

            “Stark Industries wouldn’t even _exist_ if not for the trust fund I set up—“

            “ _Mom_ set up my trust fund, first of all, and I didn’t use a penny on SI.”

            “No, _you_ wasted it all on women and cars.”

            “Better than drugs and craps!”

            “I should’ve made Maria swallow you!

            “No, you _should’ve_ offed yourself when the market took a dive in ’98!”

            And so on.

Hence, “Tony Stark requested you” was high on the list of last things Steve wanted to hear. He’d almost been excited to meet with Coral, where the worst he’d have to endure would be a teasing innuendo on his wrinkled shirt and tousled hair, alluding to the wildness of his and Peggy’s (nonexistent) sex life.

            Instead, he had to sprint back to the suite, stripping as he dug through the mound of Peggy’s clothes concealing his tablet somewhere on the bed and tugging on something vaguely involving a blazer while pleading with his hair in the bathroom mirror. The stickiness of his contacts berated him for choosing to stay the night with Bucky instead of saline, and his hurry made the delicate act of eyedrops impossible. He threw out the offending lenses and slipped on his thick black-framed glasses, looked over his outfit to make sure it wasn’t entirely colour-blind in coordination, and went to go allow the younger Stark to find him, doubling back for his tablet halfway down the hallway.

            Tony tracked him down in the atrium, sporting his trademark red-lensed sunglasses and a painfully-Miami Vice suit. He approached Steve quickly and with surprising accuracy, considering he didn’t once take his eyes off his next-generation siPhone. “Hi. Glad you didn’t bother dressing up. Olsson’s not a formal guy at all. Casual, actually. He’s famous for it.” Tucking his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket, Tony glanced up at him with disinterest. “Ready?”

            “Sure,” Steve panted, wincing. It had been a while since he’d had to prepare himself for Tony’s particular brand of candor, and he was out of practice. Shouldering his tablet bag, he trailed behind Tony as the tech mogul led him down the hall. “For what, exactly?”

            “Olsson’s got a kid,” Tony explained. “Well, he has a couple, actually, but this is the one he doesn’t hate. Apparently, Junior’s ready to leave the family business, and since I’ve heard he’s amazing, I want to snap him up before the old man hears about him.”

            “Right.” The Starks had a long, nasty history of poaching employees from each other. It wasn’t a new or bold move on Tony’s part, but Steve was still confused. “What do you need me for?”

            “Well, you’ve worked for me.” Tony shrugged, barely looking back at him. Steve had about a foot of leg on him, but he maintained a substantial lead with a quick, pointed, corporate walk Steve could never hope to replicate. “And as fun as that is to hold over your dad when I whip him in five-card, today I thought I’d use it for something constructive.” He halted abruptly in front of the conference room, making an about-face. Steve very nearly tripped over him. “Talk up the company,” he told Steve, looking him dead in the eye. “But don’t be gushy. Show examples of your work, so he knows the quality of people I hire, but this isn’t about you. Mention the opportunities you’ve had from having SI on your resume, but don’t spend too much time on any of them or he’ll get ideas of other places he can go. Stay professional, be personable, talk up Olsson but make it clear that SI is in no way affiliated, and if you so much as mention my father’s company, even to downplay it, I will have you thrown out of not the room, not the club, but the state of California.” He raised an eyebrow. “Questions?”

            “Will he be able to understand all that with your cock so far down my throat?” Steve asked dryly.

            “The kid went to Oxford.” Checking his smart-watch, Tony pulled open the door and indicated for him to go first. “I think he’ll get the gist.”

            Sir Odin Theodore Alistair Olsson was a big man. Not a fat, jowly, American CEO-type, nor a square-jawed, ex-military hulk, but a tall, broad, Anglo-Scandinavian powerhouse that was accustomed to taking up space. Despite a right eye full of cataracts and a weak knee that demanded he walk with a cane, he was no less poised or intimidating in a dark pinstriped suit, his shock-white, bushy beard impeccably-trimmed, and his fingers full of golden rings. He didn’t rise when they came in, though his son stood up to shake hands.

            The younger Olsson was no smaller, but he carried himself as though he would have liked to be. He had a sweet, familiar smile, and caramel-coloured hair tied back low on his neck. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing a surfer’s tan and an SI smart-watch, which Steve already knew had caught Tony’s eye. There was something about the young man’s face that was familiar, in his eyes and the angle of his cheekbones. It was like his father’s (from what Steve could see under all the beard), but the familiarity was from somewhere else. It was bothersome until he spoke, and Steve placed it immediately:

            “You must be Tony Stark—Baldur Olsson.”

            The accent was metropolitan, but it hung somewhere between English and Australian—just like, as radical coincidence would have it, the head bartender at the Astro.

            Tony shook his hand with a hint of apology. “Nice to meet you—did you say Walter?”

            “No, sorry—“ Wincing, the younger Olsson took out a business card. “Baldur. Like—“

            “After his grandfather,” Sir Odin rumbled, giving them all a look until they took their seats.

            “Ah, yes.” Glancing at the card, Tony tucked it into his pocket and grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet with you again, Sir.”

            Olsson only grunted.

            “Right.” Clearing his throat, Tony patted the back of Steve’s chair. “This is Steve Rogers.”

            “I used to do graphic design for Dr Stark’s main enterprise,” Steve offered cordially, taking his cue.

            “Oh!” Baldur brightened, seeing the tablet for the first time. “And you brought a portfolio?”

            “’Used to’?” Olsson asked, before Steve could answer.

            Freezing with a hand halfway to his tablet, Steve flinched. “Uh…”

            Thankfully, Tony swooped in to save him. “Stark Industries is primarily looking for passionate, creative, determined people. We understand that kind of person may not necessarily stick around, but we do want to offer a place for them to develop their skills and gain experience—experience that can take them into any industry in the world.”

            It went on like that. Baldur was accommodating and seemed more than a little interested in a position with SI, but convincing his father was like pulling teeth from a fibromyalgic crocodile. They took a ten so Tony could make a call, and Steve went into the hallway to stretch his legs. Surprisingly, he found himself joined by the younger Olsson.

            “I wish I could have said more in there,” Baldur told him, gesturing to the conference room. “But your work really is remarkable. I especially like that you still hand-draw certain pieces; you’re very talented.”

            Steve blinked. “Wow…thank you.” He tried to find something comparable to say about finance management and couldn’t. “I don’t know a lot about finance, but you must be, too. Tony doesn’t go after just anyone this hard.”

            “That’s what my father said.” Leaning heavily against the wall, Baldur cracked his knuckles aimlessly. “And he is impressed by Stark’s offer. Though it isn’t apparent.”

            “Mm.” There was about another minute of silence until Steve couldn’t help but ask. “Hey, Tony mentioned you had siblings. Do they also work for Olsson?”

            “Oh—no.” Baldur laughed, shaking his head. “I have two brothers, and neither one would be caught dead working for my father. Theodore almost did—he lasted three semesters before his grades started slipping, and he didn’t have the desire to get them up. And Loren—he’s always been something of a black sheep. He’s brilliant, but not in the corner-office-salary way.”

            “So where are they?” Steve cocked an eyebrow, testing.

            The younger Olsson only shrugged. “My father cut them both off years ago. Theodore when he started flunking, and Loren—they had a fight. My father kicked him out of the house—my parents almost got a divorce because of it—and found two thousand pounds missing from the safe the next morning. It was a mess.” Drooping, Baldur spied Tony returning down the hallway and pushed off the wall. “I haven’t heard from either of them since.”

            “Well, actually—“ Steve perked up, but Tony cut him off.

            “C’mon, ladies, finish the tea,” he panted. “The big guy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Stuffing his phone into his pocket, Tony pulled open the conference room door and waved them in. “Get back in there.”


	7. VII

            “All I’m saying is, it’s just not environmentally- or financially-responsible to go through an entire pack of baby wipes after every shift.” Bucky watched, mildly disgusted, as his heavily-tattooed coworker did just that.

            Wade tossed another saturated wipe into the pile and grabbed another, scraping cover-up off his right sleeve. “They’re not that expensive. I spend a fortune on foundation, though.” He’d cleaned off the makeup in patches, only revealing half his face and giving himself a strange, alt-punk Phantom-of-the-Opera look.

            Bucky rolled his eyes, sitting on the hood of Wade’s mustard-yellow clunker. “Y’know, the Astro don’t pay as well as MM, but the money you’d save on not covering up, I think it’d balance out.”

            “Can’t work around food, broski.” Wade took another wiped and started cleaning off the rest of his face. “Chemo.”

            “Oh—“ Wincing, Bucky was about to apologize when the growl of an engine cut him off. Steve’s Harley bumped up the dirt road to the employee parking lot, stopping next to Wade’s Tahoe.

            “Hey!” Popping down the kickstand, Steve dismounted, grinning. “Ready?”

            “Sure.” Sliding off the hideous yellow hood, Bucky threw his club polo over one shoulder. “You following us to Barton’s party, Wade?”

            The caddy shook his head, wiping anti-diaper-rash lotion from himself with a rag from his truck. “Gotta run home and get Petey some clothes first. He doesn’t get off ‘til ten.” Digging in his backpack, he used the side mirror to put his septum ring back in. “We’ll meet you there.”

            “Cool.” No sooner had Bucky hopped on the back of the bike than Steve pulled him into a kiss, gripping his shirt hard.

            “Tongue,” Wade noted, grinning. “Nice.”

            “Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky shot back once Steve released him, smiling in spite of himself. At Steve, he cocked an eyebrow. “Miss me?”

            “I’ve been stuck with Tony Stark all day,” Steve admitted, a little flushed. “Gotta say, the fact you’ve never even been _near_ an Ivy League school is a huge turn-on right now.”

            “That’s weird and classist,” Wade piped up, though the reinstallment of his tongue ring impeded his diction.

            Bucky only laughed. “Well, you better get yourself under control before we go to a party at my high-school-dropout dealer’s place.”

            Steve let his breath out in a whoosh. “Keep talking and I just might do you in the bushes.”

            Wade snickered. “Sweet.”

            Bucky glanced at him, then gave Steve a meaningful look. “We should go.”

 

            Steve hadn’t officially met Clint Barton, so he was a little confused as to how a garage-band guitarist selling pot on the side could afford a beachside loft with a rooftop garden. He had also, even in all his days spent at huge, amazingly gay college parties, never seen so many different and exotic flavours of vodka on one card table. The game of True American under way in the living room had been momentarily paused for all players to sing sloppily along to “Sweet Caroline”. Hot Ice’s bassist, one of the only other guests Steve recognized, was leading a rowdy, high-stakes game of flip-cup along the railing. As they came up the stairs to the roof deck—which Steve suspected was a fire escape covered in purple twinkle lights—Thor overflipped, sending his cup tumbling to the beach below, and was forced to slink away from the railing in defeat.

            “That’s rough, pal.” Bucky caught him on the way to the vodka table, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll get her title one day.”

            “Ah, that wasn’t my game, anyway,” the bartender mumbled, finishing his drink. “Murdock has a wager going—if he beats her, she has to take him on a date.” He pointed to the railing, where a shorter, dark-haired man in a skinny tie and John-Lennon-sunglasses was flipping neck-in-neck with Jen.

            “Fucking finally.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “They’ve been dancin’ around each other for months. You know how many practices he’s sat in on?” Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head. “What’re you drinkin’?”

            “Rum and Coke.” Thor waggled his empty cup, wincing. “But don’t worry about topping me off. Loren’s out tonight, too, and I shouldn’t drink too much in case I have to go get him. I can get you something, though. Jameson neat?”

            “You got it. Steve?” Bucky looked at him expectantly.

            He thought about it, then shrugged. “You both know what I like.” Once Thor had woven back into the crowed, he sighed. “Eventually I’ll learn how to talk to your friends.”

            “Aw, you’re f—“

            “ _Buck!_ ” The host of the party finally made an appearance, rolling out to the rooftop on a skateboard cobbled together from at least four different pizza boxes and a dissected roller blade. “What the fuck, man? We’re tryin’ to jam, and you’re missin’ out.” Clint hopped off the strange apparatus, thumping Bucky on the chest. He was wearing a t-shirt so faded the emblem of the band was no longer discernable, and jeans that had probably seen the bombs dropped on Japan. Between the hacked-off sleeves, goofy grin, and all the tattoos, Steve had literally no idea how old he was. “I had to start the party without you—we’re already halfway through True American!”

            “Barton likes to do an opening-ceremonies type’a thing,” Bucky explained to Steve’s puzzlement and emerging shyness.

            “Like the Olympics,” Clint added helpfully. “With shots.”

            “This is Steve.” Bucky gestured in a vaguely introductory fashion between them. “From the club.”

            “Clint.” Shaking Steve’s hand absently, he plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, producing a lighter with a target engraved in the side. “Sorry ‘bout starting without you.”

            “It’s cool.” Bucky brushed him off. “Angie’s not here to make drinks. Half my act is missing. Besides—“ He shrugged. “I’m not doin’ shots today. Gotta work tomorrow.”

            “Enjoy your bitch-ass anyway,” Clint informed him. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” He squeezed Steve’s waist before sailing his pizza-board back inside.

            Steve cocked an eyebrow. “I think he just pinched my ass.”

            “Pretty likely.” Bucky snorted. “Barton’s super bi. Pretty much everyone here is something along those lines. Good thing, too. I went to art school for a year—I can’t be around straight people too long.” He patted a friend on the shoulder as they passed. “You’re pretty much candy here.”

            “Speak for yourself,” the bassist sneered, shoulder-checking him into the wall. “I don’t do guys taller than me. No offense, Steve.”

            “Hi, Jen.” He grinned sheepishly. “None taken.”

            Jen looked him over for a second. “Huh. You were right, Buck. He is a full-body blusher.”

            “I’m sayin’. Hey—“ While Steve soared to a whole new level of self-consciousness, Bucky gave her a smirk. “Can’t help but notice the flip-queen’s been dethroned.” The guy in the red sunglasses was still facing off against new opponents on the railing, while Jen’s cup had long ago dashed itself on the beach below.

            “I got distracted,” she mumbled.

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Seriously! Look.” Jen crossed her arms, directing their attention to the game still in progress in the living room. “Barton’s arm-candy.”

            Hanging off Clint’s arm while he proudly introduced a gaggle of groupies to what looked like a birdcage was a tall, black-haired guy dressed with carefully-tailored slumpiness, in dark jeans, ankle boot, and an enormous olive knitted scarf. Bucky frowned. “Looks…familiar?” He glanced at Steve for confirmation, who shrugged.

            “Uh…!” Eyes bugging, Jen gestured to the aforementioned arm candy more emphatically, then caught herself, thinking. “Oh—have you not met Loki?”

            “I did, like a year ago—wait.” Bucky did another take, eyes widening. “That’s _Loki_? Man, he looks different.”

            “More yoga, less makeup.” Jen rolled her eyes. “Thor’s gonna lose it.”

            Bucky nodded in agreement. It took Steve a little longer to catch up. “Why?”

            “Because his just-turned-twenty little brother is either doinking or _trying_ to doink a thirty-year-old drug dealer.” Jen cocked an eyebrow.

            “Oh—“ Feeling stupid, Steve prayed his cheeks weren’t as hot as they felt. “You don’t call him Loren?”

            Bucky snorted. “Not if we don’t want hit.”

            The bassist nodded. “They’re not big on the names their dad gave them.”

            “Thor and Loki?” Steve raised an eyebrow skeptically.

            “Angie,” they said in near-unison.

            “Ah.” He laughed. “Cute. Barton—uh, Clint—“ Steve hesitated, unsure which was appropriate for general use. He settled on point the man out through the patio doors. “He’s thirty?”

            “Almost thirty-one.” Jen made a gagging noise. “And Loki’s just barely not-nineteen-anymore.”

            Steve made a face. “Yikes.”

            “Yeah, that won’t end well for him.” Leaning back against the loft, Bucky watched Murdock flip circles around another challenger. “Just glad he’s not going after _my_ family anymore.”

            “Seriously?” Steve stared at Clint through the glass in mock-horror.

            Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “He _definitely_ tried to get with my sister Natasha.”

            “Who’s _six_ teen,” Jen prompted, rolling her eyes.

            “Yeah, but in his defense, he thought she was my age. And when he found out she wasn’t, he backed right the hell off.” Bucky shrugged. “I still beat the living shit out of him, but that’s gonna seem like nothing when Thor catches them together.”

            “Wow.” Steve laughed in spite of himself.

            On the other side of the glass, Clint and his not-technically-jailbait had gone from tolerating groupies to making out against the kitchen island. Jen made another gagging noise. “I don’t wanna watch this anymore, and I’m not going to try starting any more games ‘til Matt’s done.” Ignoring Bucky’s suggestive look, she forded their way over to the vodka table and its neighbor the grains-and-chasers table, looking around listlessly.

            Someone inside thundered, “BARTON!”, making them all jump.

            A split second later, the patio doors burst open, and Clint came tearing out of them, barreling right through the flip-cup tournament and throwing himself over the edge. Thor was three steps behind; his younger brother brought up the rear, doubled over with laughter in the doorway.

            “This,” Steve declared, exchanging a look with Bucky, “is going to be messy.”

            “Yeah,” his date agreed. Producing a carton of pineapple juice in one hand and a bottle of Malibu in the other, he nodded toward the railing. “Wanna watch?”


	8. VIII

            “He is a _teenager_!” Thor’s shouting practically shook the hurricane-glass windows of the loft. He had cornered (sort of) Clint on the beach, with all the partygoers clustered on the roof to watch.

            “He’s twenty,” Clint pointed out. “Not a teenager.” His every attempt to make it further down the beach or back up to the deck had so far been headed off by a fuming Anglo-Aussie who had at least twenty pounds on him. Steve and the rest of the spectators found a morbid fascination in it.

            “It’s true,” someone commented over Steve’s shoulder. Loren—Loki, he reminded himself—was leaning on the railing by the stairs, away from the fight rather than toward it. “I _am_ twenty.”

            “It’s still disgusting! _Eleven_ years’ difference, Barton!” Fists clenched, Thor shot an I’ll-deal-with-you-later look up at his brother.

            “He’s an adult!” Clint pleaded.

            “I _knew_ you would do this. Ever since you went after Barnes’ sister…”

            “Aw, that’s not really fair,” Bucky muttered, finished another mostly-mystery-Malibu concoction while the yelling continued. “He didn’t know she was sixteen, and he only asked for her number.”

            Loki rolled his eyes, thumbing the rim of his own cup. “Lucky Thor’s not drunk. If he kills another of my boyfriends, we’ll have to move again.”

            “Does he always blow up like this?” Steve asked, watching the beach worriedly.

            “Only over me.” Loki sighed. “He’s protective. Suffocating, really. Ever since we were little.”

            “I think I’d be protective, too, if my kid brother was dating thirty-year-old burnouts.” Looking an eyebrow, Bucky snuck the rum out of another spectator’s grip for a top-up.

            “I’m not a _child_ ,” the youngest Olsson sniffed. “Have you ever tried dating twenty-year-olds? They’re insufferable.” Shuddering, he held out his cup for a refill.

            “You got that right.” Bucky refilled his and Steve’s cups, and promptly dropped Loki’s, still quarter-full, onto the beach below. “’Specially when they drink.”

            “The drinking age in Melbourne is eighteen,” Loki informed him.

            “Sucks that you left,” Bucky shot back.

            “Are you _really_ interested in him?” Skeptically, Steve watched Clint stumble backward and fall on his ass in a tide pool.

            “Or am I just trying to get back at Daddy, you mean?” With a venomous look, Loki made a grab for the rum, which Bucky quickly thwarted. “As a matter of fact, I am. He’s sweet, and I like his sense of humour. He may not be the brightest or the most responsible, but those are positions I’m happy to fill.” Successfully snagging a drink from a tray, Loki smiled triumphantly.

            “One out of two ain’t bad,” Bucky muttered, giving up.

            “Speaking of filling positions,” Loki snapped, “I already _have_ an older brother, in case you didn’t know. Don’t you have a coven of sisters to badger?”

            “I think what Bucky’s going for,” Steve placated, leaning back on the railing, “Is that there’s probably a _reason_ he’s interested in dating a twenty-year-old. And you just want to be careful, y’know?”

            “Clint Barton has the emotional maturity of a kindergarten-class hamster,” Loki rolled his eyes again, draining his drink. “I’m not terribly worried about getting out of my depth—“

            Clint’s voice raised suddenly, drawing attention again. “Look, _Teddy_ ,” he spat, shaking the salty mud from his hair. “ _He_ came on to _me_. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. Might as well fuck off.” To punctuate, he thumped Thor in the chest, spitting into the sand.

            Loki winced. “Oh, _never_ touch him—“

            Before anyone could ask, the elder Olsson hauled off and threw a punch into the side of Clint’s jaw so hard the crack echoed over the water. The force of it sent Clint into a heap on the sand, but in the next instant, he picked himself up and threw himself at Thor, slamming his forehead into the bartender’s nose.

            Someone (Sam) shouted, “Holy _shit_!” Loki all but dove over the railing, sprinting across the beach to pull them apart. The rest of the audience poured down the steps to the beach to pull them apart. The rest of the audience poured down the steps to the beach, having far exceeded the collective level of intoxication necessary to enjoy such a spectacle. Steve was about to follow, but surprisingly, Bucky didn’t move. As Clint demonstrated unprecedented scrappiness by wrestling six and a half feet of bartender to the ground, Steve joined him on the railing, frowning. “You’re not gonna go help break them up?”

            Bucky only shrugged, tipping the rest of his drink out and watching it splatter on the ground below. “I’ve broken my collarbone twice doing just that. Barton can take him. This happens more often than you’d think—Thor’s a good guy, but he’s a nasty drunk.”

            “Jesus.” Steve picked at the railing, watching grimly as Loki tackled his brother off their gracious host, screaming expletives.

            “Yeah.” Turning away from the fight, Bucky leaned back on the banister, surveying the empty loft. “Y’know, I bet there’s no one in the guest bedroom right now.”

 

            Steve almost stopped halfway through stripping off his clothes to question the guest bedroom décor. It was _very_ purple. Sheets, walls, furniture—even the overhead lightbulb. There were also framed photos of birds all over the bureau, where one might keep pictures of one’s family, though in this case, one would have to be a bird of prey. Steve had never had sex inside a shot of Viniq, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. Then Bucky took his hair down, and he forgot what colours were.

            Unfortunately, with his back pressed up against the padded suede headboard, all the birds were staring at him, and there was only so much Bucky’s lips on his neck could do to distract him from it. After a thoroughly uncomfortable twenty-nine seconds, Steve sighed and let go of his hair. “Hang on…”

            Bucky came up frowning, rolling to one side on the pillows. “What’s wrong?”

            “Let me just—“ Sliding off the bed, Steve started turning the bird pictures to face the wall. “Why does he _have_ these?”

            “Trains birds.” Catching his breath, Bucky leaned back against the headboard and shrugged. “For hunting and stuff.”

            “You _would_ be in a band with a falconer,” Steve mumbled, banishing the last voyeuristic raptor photo and returning gratefully to the bed. “Sorry about that.” Kicking the covers out of the way, he reached over to pull Bucky back on top of him.

            Bucky didn’t move, twiddling with a corner of the pillow, and Steve had a horrible, sickening feeling the way he was chewing on his lip wasn’t meant to be seductive. Carefully, he laced his fingers in with Bucky’s, torn between pushing and asking and not wanting to risk either one.

            “Steve, what are we doing?” Bucky asked after a while, running his thumb absently over the back of Steve’s hand.

            Steve knew very well what he would have liked to be doing, but it didn’t seem the appropriate response. He squirmed a little. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, like, what are we…doing?” Struggling for words, Bucky gestured vaguely between them. “Am I your summer fling? Your cold feet? Will I be something long-distance when you go back to the B-word?” Looking down at their hands, he deflated a little. “What do you think I…am?”

            “Uh…” Steve wished more blood were in his brain to help him answer. “Like are you my boyfriend, or—“

            “—Or are we just ‘having fun’,” Bucky finished, shrinking. “Yeah.”

            Steve let out his breath. “Do _you_ think we’re just having fun?”

            “I mean…I hope not,” Bucky admitted, pulling his hand away. “I know we don’t have that much in common, but I really like you. I wish I knew more about you, because you’re sweet and you’re funny and you give me butterflies when we’re together—“ The purple light made it hard to tell, but he might have been flushed. “But I feel like you don’t want me to know more. You never talk about what _you’re_ doing at the club, or really anything aside from college and what about me turns you on. Not that I mind being a source of great sex, but…” With a hint of a smirk, he stared down at the bedspread. “I guess I just want to be on the same page. I don’t want to get more involved than you’re in for.”

            “Bucky, I—“ Feeling twelve kinds of awful, Steve scooted closer to him on the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I should have been clearer about it.”

            “About what?” The look Bucky gave him was almost pleading.

            “I really like you, too,” he admitted to his feet. “It’s just complicated, because of Peggy and my engagement, and I’m so worried someone will find out and get it back to my parents…I couldn’t handle them knowing about us. Not right now.”

            Bucky stiffened, something hard creeping into his voice. “Really.”

            “They would lose it.” Steve shuddered just thinking about it. “They don’t even know I’m bi. My dad would murder me if he knew. He almost has before. I guess I’m being extra careful because I’ve never really been with someone…like you.”

            “Like me.” Bucky’s eyes were on him, suddenly icy.

            Steve winced. “No, I meant—“

            “I got it, Steve.” Turning away robotically, he reached for his shirt. “Thanks for clearing it up.”

            “Oh, God—“ Groaning, Steve scrambled to his side of the bed to head him off. “That’s not at _all_ what I meant, Buck. I don’t care that you’re—“

            “That I’m what?” Bucky snapped, throwing down his jacket. “Finish that fucking sentence, Rogers. What am I?”

            “It doesn’t matter,” he pleaded, reaching for Bucky’s shoulder.

            Bucky swatted him away, eyes wide. “What were you gonna say? That I’m poor? That I’m a dropout? That I’m a loser buried in student loans because instead of buying me friends and an education and a Harley, my dad had to _die_?”

            Steve swallowed. “I was going to say ‘different’.”

            “Wow.” Teeth gritted, Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “That would’ve been _way_ better.”

            “Well—!” Steve huffed, dropping back onto the bed. “We come from different backgrounds. I get it.”

            “No, Steve, you don’t.” Bucky crossed his arms. “Why do you think I’m so nervous? Believe it or not, working at the club, I’ve been used by bored rich kids before. Usually I’m fine with it, but this time—“ He sighed. “I actually _liked_ you. I was really hoping you weren’t just using me as an accessory, and I thought we were in the clear. I mean, you get along with my friends. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but no one’s put in the effort before.” Tugging on his jacket, he shook his head. “But it’s fine. Thanks for wasting my time, I guess.” Sardonically, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Want a ride back to the club, or should I suck you off one last time first?”

            “Y’know what?” Scowling, Steve got up, shoving him back. “No. We’re not just ending it like that. I’m _not_ some bored rich kid looking for easy dick. The fact you would even _say_ that—“

            “What am I supposed to say, Steve?” Bucky snapped.

            “Well, you could talk more about me giving you butterflies,” Steve mumbled, shifting. “That was nice.”

            Rolling up his sleeves, Bucky sank back onto the bed. “No, I’m not bothering with that shit again. Not if this is how it turns out.”

            “It’s not,” Steve promised, sitting next to him tentatively. “It’s really not. I like you, Bucky. I want to make this work.”

            “Make it _work_?” Snorting, Bucky flopped backward onto the bunched-up comforter. “You’re engaged. You’re closeted. And you’re going back to NoCal in what, two months?”

            “More like six weeks,” Steve agreed. He thought of adding something encouraging, but nothing came to mind. They were quiet for a while, Steve staring at the violently lavender carpet, Bucky covering his face with his hands. When he couldn’t take the silence any longer, Steve scooted closer. “I didn’t know your dad passed away.”

            “Afghanistan,” Bucky said softly, muffled by his hands. “He joined the Army a while back so they’d pay for med school. Got called back in.”

            “Oh.” Steve picked at his cuticles absently. “He was a doctor?”

            “Lab tech. Didn’t have the grades. Lost the GI bill.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “You don’t have to be.” Sitting up abruptly, Bucky gave him a look with something like hurt in it. “My family’s not loaded, Steve, but we’re not destitute. We’re not starving. I kind of like my life, actually. Unless I’m around you,” he added as a sour afterthought. “Around you, I feel fucking pathetic. Because you _think_ I’m fucking pathetic.”

            “I don’t, Bucky,” Steve pressed. His throat felt tight. “I promise.”

            “Shut up.” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Bucky leaned forward onto his knees. “Just shut up. I’ve heard this speech so many times. I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of falling for it. Just stop.”

            “I had asthma as a kid,” Steve said suddenly.

            Bucky frowned. “What?”

            “I had asthma as a kid,” he repeated, not looking at Bucky just yet. “Pretty bad. I had to have an inhaler on me all the time, and I actually got shots for it—“ Steve took a deep breath. “When I was thirteen, my dad caught me kissing Austin Czernicki on the cheek while we were watching a movie in our home theatre.”

            Bucky raised his eyebrows.

            “I know.” Rolling his eyes, Steve kicked at the carpet. “He decided the appropriate course of action would be to send Austin straight home, then beat me with a bottle of Jack Daniels until it broke. When I started having an attack—“ He laughed in spite of himself. “He dropped my inhaler down the garbage disposal and told me he’d rather I died than grow up a cocksucker.” He took another breath to prepare himself before looking up to meet Bucky’s horrified gaze.

            “I…” Bucky opened his mouth, then reconsidered. After a moment, he laughed, cracking his knuckles. “So I’m guessing you’re not that eager to tell your folks about us.”

            “Not really. But—“ Drawing himself up, Steve found Bucky’s hand again and clung to it. “That’s no reason for me to give up on us. Because I’m not going to. I think we have something, and I’m _not_ just in it for the great sex.” With a small smile, he inched closer on the bed. “If it seems like I am, that’s only because before you, I hadn’t been kissed since New Year’s, and hadn’t had sex since last Presidents’ Day.”

            “ _Presidents’_ Day?” Bucky bit back a grin. “That was the occasion?”

            “He was a Young Republican protestor, and I was escorting girls into Planned Parenthood.” Steve blushed despite his best preventative efforts. “One thing kind of led to another…in a weird way.”

            “Fuckin’ Christ.” Shaking his head, Bucky stripped off his jacket, tossing it at the turned-away bird photos. “No wonder it’s all you talk about.”

            “I need it pretty bad,” Steve admitted, wishing he’d put his shirt back on when Bucky did, if only so the blush creeping down his chest would go unnoticed.

            “That’s okay.” Pulling off his shirt, Bucky straddled his lap, stretching to show off his tattoo/biceps as much as possible. “Because you’re gonna get it pretty damn good.”


	9. IX

             “Oh, no.” Shaking her head, Charlotte tossed aside the last designer’s sketch. “I’m sorry, but my beautiful daughter simply will _not_ wear a halter neck down the aisle.”

             Peggy let out a groan that could’ve leveled a small European city. “Mum, you’ve shot down every dress so far. At this rate, I’ll be marrying Steve in my tennis clothes.”

             Charlotte sighed, leaning back to ensnare a waiter. “I’m sorry, darling, but I’ve yet to see an acceptable submission from your designer.”

             “ _You_ picked her!” Peggy protested.

             “Well, I won’t make _that_ mistake again, will I?” Charlotte secured another fuzzy navel and pushed the sketches across the table. “Look at that, Angela dear. Could you honestly see my Peggy in any of those rags?”

             “Uh…” Shifting uncomfortably, Angie shrugged. “Honestly, Mrs Carter, I’ve never known Peggy to be the dress type at all.”

             “Exactly—perhaps I’ll go along with Steve and be fitted for a tuxedo.” Peggy rolled her eyes. “At least them you can trust I won’t be committing the capital offense of being seen in a mermaid skirt.”

             “An English-cut trouser certainly would do more for your thighs,” Charlotte replied snidely.

             “One more word about my thighs and I’ll put the whole bridal party in snakeskin mini-skirts,” her daughter threatened. “Including the groomsmen.”

             “Gotta admit, mini-skirts and Steve sound like a good combination,” Angie offered in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

             Thankfully, Charlotte laughed. Gathering up the designs and stuffing them back into her purse, she leaned forward to pat Angie’s hand. “All this bickering must make you feel terribly awkward, my dear. How is your lunch?”

             “Very good.” Angie tried not to look at her clean-scraped plate and remind herself for the umpteenth time how many packets of ramen she could’ve bought with what Charlotte had dropped on her salad. “Thank you again, Mrs Carter.”

             “It’s no trouble.” Smiling, Charlotte picked at her own untouched plate. “You and Peggy have become such fast friends—it’s wonderful to see such lovely young ladies getting on so well. It’s my pleasure.”

             “Thank you, ma’am,” Angie said again, feeling a bit like a pull-string doll.

             “Certainly.” Suddenly, Charlotte brightened, something over both of their heads catching her eye. “My, what a charming young man.”

             Peggy turned. At the poolside bar, Tony Stark was tipping a very uncomfortable Bucky four times the total of his tab. She frowned. “I thought you and Dad couldn’t stand the Starks.”

             “Oh, no.” Charlotte made a face. “ _Howard_ Stark is a pig—brazen and absolutely crude. The sorts of things he used to say to your father, the last time we were stateside…you wouldn’t _believe_ how the man talks, even when he doesn’t drink.”

             “Really?” Angie cocked an eyebrow. “I just saw Mr Carter head out to tee off with Mr Stark and Mr Rogers this morning.”

             “Oh, he and Joe Rogers are old friends.” Charlotte waved a hand dismissively. “I imagine Harry doesn’t want to be rude.”

             “God, Dad…” Peggy muttered in disgust.

             “But the younger Stark is quite another matter,” Charlotte went on, waving cheerfully to the Stark in question. “Anthony is terribly well-bred. Simply brilliant—and very sweet. He gives to hundreds of charities all over the world.”

             “Yes, well.” Peggy snorted, trying not to roll her eyes as the second-generation Stark began making his way over. “So do the Olssons.”

             In spite of herself, Charlotte gave a nasty scowl. “Odin Olsson wouldn’t know charity if it bit him on the tip of his withered old—“

             “Yikes!” Laughing, Tony Stark leaned on the back of the vacant chair next to Charlotte. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

             “You know you are, and you couldn’t care less,” Peggy pointed out dryly.

             “You got me. I admit—I hate to hear beautiful women curse. Had to cut in.” Winking at her mother and ignoring her entirely, Tony pulled out the chair. “May I?”

             “Please.” Charlotte sat up enthusiastically. “How have you been settling in, Mr Stark?”

             “Mr Stark is my father,” Tony proclaimed, shrugging modestly. “My father with no Ph.D and a moderate-to-severe coke problem.”

             “God forbid you simply correct her, hm?” Peggy muttered. Angie winced.

             “My apologies— _Dr_ Stark,” Charlotte amended sheepishly. “Have you been traveling long?”

             “Not at all.  Came here straight from Manhattan. And we’re settling in great—gotta love that West Coast hospitality.” Sharing a meaningful look with a passing server who blushed and averted her eyes, Tony leaned his chair back on two legs. “And Tony is fine.”

             “Lovely. Just lovely—oh! Thank you.” The server brought over champagne refills with surprising speed, and Charlotte took one right away. “Have you met my daughter Margaret?” She nodded across the table.

             “Only briefly, I think.” With an agonizingly smooth smile, he reached across to shake Peggy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, M—“

             “It’s Peggy.” She didn’t touch his hand. “And it isn’t mutual.”

             “Peggy!” Charlotte gasped. “How perfectly rude—“

             Tony only laughed. “That’s okay. I heard she was a little bit of a firecracker. And I’m sure I’ll grow on you,” he added with a wink.

             “Fungus has a tendency to do that,” she replied coolly, turning away from him and returning the drink he’d ordered for her untouched.

             “Don’t mind her,” Charlotte said quickly, touching the younger, more highly-accredited Stark’s shoulder. “The wedding’s got her under immeasurable stress, poor dear.”

             “Wedding?” Tony cocked an eyebrow.

             “Oh, yes.” Beaming proudly, Charlotte drained her champagne. “She and Joe Rogers’ boy are planning the most beautiful autumn wedding.”

             “You mean Steve?” Peggy didn’t like the gleam in Tony’s eyes when he asked, and Angie didn’t like that Peggy had seen something she didn’t like. Charlotte, of course, went on unperturbed.

             “Yes. Steven is such a kind, educated, well-spoken young man—and very handsome,” she added, already-flushed cheeks darkening a shade. “We’re very proud.”

             “Where is the groom-to-be?” Tony sat up straight in his seat, spotting Steve after a moment at the bar, leaning over to talk with the lifeguard tending it. “Should we invite him to join us?”

             “Why, Dr Stark—“ Charlotte held a hand to her heart as thought she’d witnessed a murder of telenovela-proportions. “We couldn’t possibly. One of these—“ she held up the stack of rejected designs, “—may become my Peggy’s bridal gown, and the groom is strictly forbidden from having any involvement with that sort of thing before the wedding.”

             “Mum, you’ve hated every single one of those designs,” Peggy pointed out. “What does it matter if Steve sees them? It’s obvious I won’t be wearing any of them.”

             “It’s the _principle_ of the thing, Margaret,” her mother hissed, tucking away the shameful designs once more.

             Tony hadn’t even heard, still turned around in his seat, watching everything that changed hands between Steve and the bartender with careful scrutiny. “He spend a lot of time at the bar?” he asked after a moment, swirling the champagne in his glass.

             “Oh, no, Steve doesn’t drink,” Angie assured him quickly, only to receive a knee-bump under the table for her troubles. She glances over at Peggy to ask why and in a horrible, crystallizing moment realized Peggy had never been the object of Tony Stark’s notorious, non-stop quest for tail, and she had a feeling Charlotte wasn’t in the running, either.

             Peggy was the competition he was sizing up—or, at least, she had been. Angie watched her best friend bring her girlfriend’s fiancé more water for the third time in five minutes and felt something sick start gnawing in her stomach.

             Luckily, Charlotte Carter was nothing if not distracting. She managed to talk Tony’s ear off for another hour without so much as a hint, asking enough questions about his company and the various prestigious degrees and awards he’d procured before he could legally drink that it limited his calculating glances at the bar to once a minute, giving Steve plenty of time to escape. Peggy excused herself and her guest soon after, so Angie had time to change before _her_ shift at the bar began, and hoped that was the end of it.

             It wasn’t.

             She was halfway to the fitness wing to meet Steve at couples’ yoga when her phone buzzed:

 

                                  From: Steve

                                  Is it okay if we skip yoga tonight? I want to take Buck to Long Beach for drinks.

 

             The yoga teacher was a wafer-thin white girl with dreadlocks and ohms tattooed on every visible inch of her body, who took every opportunity to stare at Steve’s biceps and remind Peggy that going vegan helped a lot of women “lose that tummy”. She had no qualms about spending less time with such a woman, and told Steve so. The problem came when she turned to go back to their suite, crossing through the reading nook where Tony was camped on a tablet the size of Madagascar. When she’d already passed him once on the way in.

             “Change your mind?” he asked the minute she crossed into his line of sight, glancing up from what was either work or some very intense Minesweeper.

             “Going out instead,” she muttered, not looking at him and making a break for the doorway.

             “With Steve? Or your side hoe?”

             Peggy froze, gritting her teeth. “What are you talking about?”

             “I mean the little blonde tartlet on your arm at brunch.” Setting his work aside, Tony leaned back in the armchair. “As opposed to the blonde beefcake on whom _you_ should be doing the hanging.”

             Crossing her arms, Peggy leaned in the doorframe. “Does this have anything to do with you ogling my fiancé like a piece of meat?”

             “Actually, yes.” Getting up and sauntering over to her, Tony crossed his arms in a mockery of her attempt at a stern gesture. “I’m gonna climb him like he’s Everest.”

             “Then, like many, be prepared to die in the attempt,” she retorted, scowling.

             “Hmm…don’t think I will.” He shook his head. “I’m what you call an experienced climber.”

             “Metaphor notwithstanding, you’re not Steve’s type.” Peggy snorted. “Trust me.”

             “Oh, I’ve seen his type,” Tony sneered. “And frankly, Miss Carter—neither are you. How did you two plan on making that work, exactly? Wait for the folks to die so you can be as gay as you want and no one can cut you off?” he asked, looking her over skeptically, as though her yoga tank and capris made her just that much less-suited to the task.

             “That’s none of your business,” she snapped, all but shoving him away. “Lust after Steve all you want—it won’t get you anywhere.”

             “No?” Tony frowned. “Then I guess there’s no reason not to tell Joe and harry what their children have been doing the past couple weeks—or, y’know.” He smirked. “Who.”

             “Oh, really?” She rolled her eyes. “Blackmail, Stark? Why can’t you just get yourself plastered and piss on something valuable to keep yourself entertained?”

             “Like I told _TIME_ ,” he retorted, “I want no part of the family business.”  
             “Ah, yes—I forgot.” Shouldering her yoga bag, Peggy turned to go. “High-profile public indecency is a subsidiary of Stark _Enterprises_. Stark _Industries_ is more in the coercive rape and blackmail racket.”

             “Well, when you say it like that,” Tony murmured, feigning hurt. She took a step toward the hallway, though, and he scowled. “We’re not done here.”

             “Yes, we are,” she snapped, whirling around. “I don’t even understand why you’re telling me this. I’m not going to tell Steve to roll over for you. You don’t even want anything from _me_.”

             “That’s where you’re wrong.” Straightening his tie, Tony cocked an eyebrow. “Your old man might be a traditionalist, but everyone knows you’re the only heir to Carter Investments. And once old Harry retires—which, let’s face it, is gonna be early, because your mom looks _great_ for her age—you and I are gonna be working together very closely.”

             “Not after this, we’re not,” Peggy hissed. “I can promise you that, you weaselly little man.”

             “Call names all you want.” Grabbing his tablet, he brushed past her into the hall. “But take this as a lesson, Little Miss Future Executive.” Before Peggy could follow him (and hopefully wring his slimy neck), he stepped into a lobby full of witnesses, barely glancing over his shoulder to add, “I always get what I want.”


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'll post more now that it's summer

             Since getting a word in edgewise was nigh-impossible with a man who threatened to sue if he saw his name in a unflattering font, Steve and Peggy spent most of dinner with Tony Stark in silence while he downed champagne and talked about himself like he was going out of style—which, he repeatedly assured everyone, he wasn’t. When Tony finally took a breath, Peggy spotted dished leaving the kitchen and swooped in. “I must say, Dr Stark, I’ve never seen anyone eat salmon one-handed.”

             Tony barely looked up from his phone. “I wasn’t planning to.”

             “Oh, thank goodness.” Glowering at him through the transparent screen, Peggy poised the heel of her stiletto just over his toe. “I thought you’d been groping my fiancé for so long your hand had fused to his thigh.”

             With a grin, Tony extracted his hand from Steve’s leg, using it to pour her the last of the champagne. “Can you blame me? Look at him.” Without so much as a gesture to Steve, he flagged down the barback instead. “Hi there.”

             “Good evening, Dr Stark.” Bucky stood by the table at parade rest, purple tie half-askew and eyes glued absolutely anywhere but Steve. “What can I get for you?”

             “Scotch and soda, neat, and your blonde coworker’s phone number,” Stark replied promptly, winking. “Throw in yours, too, and I’ll tip cash.”

             Usually, Steve loved Bucky’s just-barely-tolerating-patrons smile, but he was too busy trying to shake the slimy feeling of the hand on his thigh to enjoy it. Bucky took down the order without looking at his notepad, regarding Tony unwaveringly like the kind of thing he usually beat up in parking lots. “And for you, Miss Carter?”

             “The Saturday usual, please.” She scooted her chair closer to Steve’s, giving him a meaningful look. “And Steve will have the same.”

             Steve breathed a sigh of relief, taking her hand. “Saturday usual” was something they’d worked out with the bartenders they were nailing. It was an Italian soda dressed up in a rocks glass with a garnish, so designed as to deter certain alcoholic family members and now, the unwelcome presence of certain billionaire assholes, from buying them drinks it would be rude to refuse. As difficult as it was to tolerate Tony Stark sober, it was downright dangerous to be around him otherwise. In fact, there were very few better or faster-acting ways to wander into drug possession, drunk-and-disorderly, and once or twice, accessory-to-murder charges.

             And, naturally, Tony wasn’t letting them off easy. “How about a round of scorpion shots for the table, too?” he added with the kind of gleam in his eye that usually prefaced a classic car taking a dive into the Pacific. A collection of Steve’s newly-threatened brain cells cried out in terror at the thought.

             Bucky winced. “I’m so sorry, Doctor, but the scorpion shot is a seasonal menu item, and we aren’t stocked for them right now.”

             “Shame.” In the blink of an eye, Tony utterly and completely lost interest, returning to his phone. “That’ll be all, then. Thank you.”

             Bucky slunk away from the table, and an uncomfortable but thoroughly—in light of things to come—welcome silence set in. Stark toyed on his phone for a few more minutes, and Peggy and Steve exchanged glances with only slightly different proportions of pained anticipation and the desire to be thrown out a window. Steve took another few minutes to formulate a relatively painless topic of conversation, opened his mouth to speak—

             _KSSSSH!_

The doors to the patio buckled and shattered, a purple golf cart exploding into the dining room in a shower of tempered glass and wood splinters. The raucous, screechy seventies rock blaring from the stereo drowned out the ambient track pumped over the club speakers, and the raucous, skunky seventies _smell_ made several older diners erupt into disapproving grumbles, as did the MM polos on three of the four cart passengers. Peter, the caddy with Coke-bottle glasses and the general physique of a Twizzler, toppled out of one of the back seats, while Wade the egg-bald, secretly-tattooed, gross overestimator of his own golf-cart-piloting skills, giggled at him. Steve didn’t recognize the other polo, but he recognized the non-polo all too well, and vice versa.

             “Hey, Steve!” Rolling out of the passenger seat, Clint shook broken glass out of his hair and grinned.

             Steve made a noise like a bird in a garbage disposal as every mortified member eye in the restaurant turned his way. Clint’s particular brand of inebriation made it almost impossible that he would pick up on the signs of Steve slumping, averting his eyes, and generally wishing to disappear—not that he would’ve acknowledged them sober, but it certainly didn’t help.

             While his customers hatched a haphazard plan to remove the golf cart from the dining room, which consisted of backing up in stops and starts and yelling at each other, Clint picked his way over the rubble of the doors toward the table, picking wood splinters off his “Eat More Possum” shirt. “You still coming to the Fourth of July party?” he asked, picking up Tony’s drink and sniffing it.

             Steve didn’t answer, only stared at the carpet while club security caught sight of Clint from the hallway and began moving in.

             Clint huffed, checking his decades-old TracPhone. “Ain’t Bucky workin’ tonight? Where’s he?” Squinting over at the bar, he cupped his hands into a makeshift megaphone and shouted, “Hey, BUCK—“

             “Sir!” Club security grabbed him on the shoulder, the slightly-more-muscle-bound of the two barking, “You’re going to have to come with us.”

             “No, I’m goin’ out for drinks with these faggots when they get off in an hour.” Clint pointed at the tireless efforts of the golf-cart-rescue crew, then considered. “Unless they get fired. Then we’ll prob’ly go now. We broke a window,” he informed security with a waggle of an eyebrow.

             “Yes, I see that.” Frowning, they pulled him toward the door. “Let’s go talk about that.”

 

             The first person to break the silence after they dragged Clint off (while he assured them he and his compatriots were doing absolutely anything but lighting up in the caddyshack) was Tony, who took one look at his newly-sniffed drink and started laughing. “Wow.” He shook his head, elbowing Steve in the ribs. “Your friends seem nice.”

             “He’s not really—“ Steve began, only to lose the rest of the sentence when he saw security return, this time ducking behind the bar and beckoning Bucky out amid the wave of patrons leaving in disgust. Automatically, he stood up to follow.

             Tony didn’t like that. “What is _with_ you and that bartender?” he snapped, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. “I didn’t think he was your type.”

             “Huh?” Catching himself, Steve sat back down, watching security leave. “He’s not. He’s—“ Searching for even the lamest of excuses and coming up empty, he swallowed. “Not.”

             “Really?” Narrowing his eyes, Tony very pointedly raised his voice. “Because you’ve been _undressing_ him with your _eyes_ all night.”

             “Stop that,” Peggy hissed.

             “No, really!” Throwing his drink back in one gulp, Tony cocked an eyebrow. “Got a little man-crush? Because I never would have pegged you as the type to take it in the—MOTHER _FUCKER_!”

             Peggy extracted her heel from his femoral artery and sniffed. “You were saying?”

             Stark glared at her. “Did I misread? Is Burnout Hozier the one who takes it?”

             “Keep talking,” she replied smoothly, “And you can kiss your testicles goodbye.”

             “Ooh, never done that. Steve? Any tips?”

             “I’m leaving,” he muttered, pushing away from the table.

             “You’re not going anywhere.” Tony scowled. “You walk out that hole where the door used to be, and I’ll have trailer-trash Aragorn in the welfare line by sunrise.”

             Steve hesitated. Even if it was a bluff—and it wasn’t, necessarily—hell had no fury like a Stark stood up, and even if he hadn’t given Tony tons of ammunition, the younger stark was almost as adept as his father at manufacturing his own. Slowly, he slid back toward the table.

             “That’s more like it.” Leaning back in his chair, Tony rattled his ice cubes at the servers bringing out their plates. “Now let’s eat.”

 

             The inside of MM’s Royal Suite was beautiful, and the sheets had a thread count in scientific notation, and neither fact was one Steve felt he’d needed to learn firsthand. In fact, he would’ve been happy going his entire life without knowing anything about Mesa’s Royal Suite, if it meant never suffering through Tony Stark’s bourbon-scented panting and teacup-poodle grunting.

             The man took dick like a dyslexic took notes. And beyond his erratic and honestly amateurish conduct, the things he found it necessary to say—during an activity Steve personally preferred to be less than hyperverbal—made him downright repulsive to fuck. Steve wasn’t an experienced pitched, but he’d been known to step up to the mound to help out a friend. Tony was not a friend, and he made the whole experience so needlessly unpleasant and anxiety-inducing that Steve doubted he’d ever top again. So he lay on his back, staring up at the crown molding with one hand on his clothes, counting the seconds until Tony fell asleep.

             No such luck. The younger Stark returned from the bathroom fresh-faced and downright chipper, flopping down next to Steve. “Not bad for a trial run,” he quipped, flicking through emails on his phone. “Have a little more enthusiasm next time.”

             “There’s not gonna _be_ a next time.” Steve scowled, rolling out of bed. “If that wasn’t enough to shut you up, you better look somewhere else, because I’m not subjecting myself to that again.”

             “Somewhere else?” Stark sat up. “Like where?”

             “Anywhere but me,” Steve snapped.

             “I heard the lifeguard tops.” He cocked an eyebrow. “How’s that for ‘anywhere’?”

             Yanking his clothes back on, Steve refused to look at him. “That’s not funny.”

             “I think it is.” Pulling on his robe and lying back on the pillows, Tony went back to play on his phone. “I think everything about this is funny. I wanna see how long you’ll put up with me out of fear that I’ll out you. I _hope_ you’ll do it so long you end up outing yourself just in time to watch your shamgagement fall to complete shit. And I think if I play my cards right, I can get your east-coast-trash boyfriend to leave you in the process.” Rolling his eyes, he swooned and gesticulated, slurring in an exaggerated New Yorker drawl. “’Whaddaya, leavin’ me fo’ Tony Stawk? Oy!’” 

             “I swear to _God_ , Stark—“ Steve clenched his fists. “Stop it.”

             “Or what? You’ll blackmail me back?” Tony laughed. “Baby, all my dirty laundry is on Wikipedia already. People love it. It’s ‘gritty’.”

             “Leave me _alone_ ,” he spat, throwing his glasses back on with what was intended to be punctuative fervor.

             “Steve—honey—and I really do mean this with all my heart—“ Tony cackled to himself as he watched Steve storm out, and Steve had the distinct impression Howard’s famous coke problem wasn’t alone in the family. “—make me.”


End file.
